The Baron's Column

Dangers of rubber trousers

2012-01-04T08:27:00.000-08:00

We returned to Glen Trolliagh for a family Christmas and yet again against all the odds of terrible weather we have had a lovely time with generous and helpful guests who although confined indoors by 100 mph winds, heavy snow, floods and monsoon rains at least did not have to endure the failure of domestic equipment and frozen pipes on the scale of last Christmas save the odd power cut. A sort of seasonal Dunkirk spirit appeared with lots for singing and traditional games with a dash of sociable gatherings for coffee, tea or something a little stronger around the purloined Great Christmas Tree of Trollaigh.

No one locally ventured out to visit us and I am not surprised as conditions were unsuitable for any travelling for despite months of works by the policy makers of Argyll & Bute Council and indeed even a policy or two being published; not a snowplough or a bin man has been seen for over 4 weeks. I even hear that the vital central government inspired principle of Home Care for the elderly is now being delivered by an enthusiastic lady on a push bike in Dalmally after the previous 2 carers with motor cars sensibly returned to the warmer climes of the English home counties. Obviously if one lives outside push bike range of Dalmally be sure in the knowledge that your corps will be found by a highly qualified Social Worker on a routine visit in the Spring.

The only niggle has been the trend to send ever tinier Christmas cards presumable in a show frugal humility or more likely a conspiracy by the Post Office to lighten their burden. However the limitations of space mean that most signatures are illegible and the lack of space for any personal message fails to give a clue as to who the sender might be. Perhaps in a year or two the fashion for large embossed cards naked of charitable giving, which I much prefer will return.

Having spent at least some of the winter in the sun; a habit which we have every intention of developing if this bally weather continues; we have lost the habit of coping with many layers of outdoor togs and one of the more jolly seasonal sights was that of dearest Dottie going into a tripping, staggering tail spin when having donned the wellies she had forgotten that the rubber trousers were still round her ankles providing an effective hobble. I really must not send her out for logs in the dark when it is a task I can easily accomplish myself.

All our very best wishes for a successful, fruitful and happy 2012, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

H Bogart Esq

2011-12-06T12:13:00.000-08:00

It seems inevitable that something would crack under the constant pressure of gardening and hydro scheme construction in the disappointingly non existent Trollaigh Summer weather, to say nothing of a painfully boatless season, so dearest Dottie and I have joined the Snow Birds on the Florida Keys erstwhile home of H Bogart and Ernest Hemingway amongst others. Strangely, given the obvious clue in the island's name, Humphrey is immortalised on Key Largo by a pub called "The African Queen" and Ernest's lovely colonial style home in Key West has visitors combing the grounds for any sight of his six toed pussy cats rather than their renowned owner. Key West attempts to rival Miami Beach for crassness with wild irresponsible drinking and a dubious encouragement to disrobe in public; at least KW does not fly the rainbow flag on sections of the beach a la Miami buffty boys, and KW still has the decency to respect its ageing hippy population.
We are very fortunate to awake each morning with a view of the sunrise from our bed and ocean facing balcony; although this orientation threw my navigational skills for a day or two until dearest Dottie pointed out that we had crossed the Atlantic and now looked on the ocean from its eastern edge rather than the more familiar western edge.
This spectacular Island chain is mainly coral and mangroves, however we had been laughing at the local warnings to be on the lookout for falling Coconuts whilst wandering on the mostly man made beaches. We changed our minds when a national newspaper published some unpleasant accident statistics to give a serious slant on the Thanksgiving Holiday. 165 Americans die everyday on the roads; 33 do not return from their cruise line vacations each year; 162 perish annually from shark attacks and yes, another 162 are killed by falling American Coconuts. As you know I'm not one for the sums however with a quick mental extrapolation it would seem that one resident of the North Argyll Glens may sucumb to a falling Coconut once every 3000 years; so we now carefully sit in the sun rather than in the Palm Tree shaded areas. During more energetic moments we have been watching or participating in local activities which mainly revolve around the ocean and of course the seafood and wine are particularly special.
News from Glen Trollaigh tells of snow and ice with the onset of winter; unfortunately for us Christmas seems to be looming and apparently legions of electrical engineers are arriving on the 17th December to commission our hydro scheme, so we had reluctantly better start looking up the airline timetables. For those of you who do not receive a Christmas Card this year, and there will be many as we haven't given them a thought, please accept our best wishes for a very merry Christmas. Your aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Moose aboot.

2011-11-03T14:21:00.000-07:00

It hardly seems a year since I was complaining that invitations to traditional national events no longer fall through the letter box at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh and this year nothing has changed; one just has to accept that any influence and responsibility one once had has passed on to others. I honestly cannot say that I miss the dinners or the church parades; less so now that many chums have "passed" as the Americans rather bluntly put it. This gives me more time to appreciate the wonderful part of the world that we live in, and enjoy it; despite the constant corridor patrols looking for any sign of deterioration of the baronial hacienda or its furnishings. And what surprises we have with new gardens, polytunnel, hydro and other micro generation projects, I hardly have time for my traditional roll of Laird of all I survey, shooting and fishing my way through the autumn. However a warning on the sporting front as I have at long last purchased a new pair of ski boots that I can force the feet into; doubtless it will now not snow for years.
Dearest Dottie and I were inveigled away for another mini break, this time to the German Baltic coast, a spot I am completely unfamiliar with but would certainly visit again as it is both charming and has fabulous sailing waters. We travelled there for a 75th birthday party of a German sea Captain who has been a great friend for many years as he "emigrated" to Inveraray for a fair chunk of the 80's, 90's and 00's where he developed a love of and feeling for the Great Pipes; so his party is best described as multicultural. Not wishing to make it too easy we travelled there by train, requiring 5 separate train connections each way, which gave us an opportunity to overnight in both Koln and Brussels on the way home. Koln on the Rhine was perhaps a highlight, staying in a recommended hotel with an eye watering bill; although I am sure a few of my relations probably flattened the place 60 years ago. However a city of fabulous shopping so make sure you cut up the family credit cards before a visit. The only fly in the ointment was the Glasgow bound Virgin Pendolino, now a 4 hour super blast from Euston; the train was dirty and smelly and mismanaged by a Glaswegian crew who seemed to ignore the constant complaints about things not working whilst engaging in loud "banter" before being first off the train, by then half an hour late without apology and presumably without reporting any faults to their hapless southbound colleagues. A fair contrast to our German train manager who was riven with apologies when his train was 3 minutes late into Koln from Hamburg (also 4 hours) with 6 hours still to go to Stuttgart. why do we manage to accept 2nd best most of the time?
A common language often confuses and this cannot be more true than that between English and Scots, as she is spoke, as I discovered whilst engaging an Argyll resident during a recent chance meeting. Upon enquiring where the cove was heading the reply came "I'm inta Oban to sort the moose"; this offers various possibilities of vermin control or possibly something a little larger with horns rampaging about the house. When I tried to define things a little by asking where the "moose" was, the reply came back "aboot"; this dear reader means virtually anywhere. Further questioning ascertained that the "moose" was in "the boot"; at last a ray of understanding shone through as it is fairly common for country dweller's cars to suffer from rodents nibbling through wires or fuel lines as the little blighters seek shelter from approaching winter. So my friend was indeed en route to an Oban garage to repair his car which had suffered rodent damage in the boot. Alas I was by now too exhausted to enquire after the fate of the "moose" however I would imagine that there are some replete hens about the farmyard. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

How to stick oneself to fibreglass

2011-10-02T02:21:00.000-07:00

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, however I had boxed myself into an engineering corner whilst ignoring detailed and expensive plans for the Great Hydro Scheme of Trollaigh. So a bit of ingenuity had to be displayed in forming an over-flow tank to allow non existent fish to escape safely from the gnashing and foaming hydro jaws to comply with some legislation whose purpose has long since been lost in the mists of time. Ah ha! A fibreglass moulding I thought; having never had any serious dealings with the stuff apart from the wonderful toxic aroma that used to fill the cockpit of a much loved purple Lotus Europa when the temperature rose to boiling point, which it frequently did. I thought this a simple ploy and the chap on the phone explained that all one needed was resin, a catalyst and the glass matting. To cut a long story short I have to doff my cap to Colin Chapman and numerous production boat builders who handle the stuff on a regular basis, or at least I would if my cap was not now resin-ed to my finger tips along with mixing spatulas, paint brushes, plastic pails and dearest Dottie's best kitchen scissors. Practice makes perfect and I fully intend to have another go once Accident & Emergency have prised apart my fingers and removed the super glued latex gloves which also appear to be welded to my tweed jacket.
September has passed and Autumn colours are visible if you are lucky to spot them through the torrential rain and howling gales devastating the North Argyll Glens while most of the rest of the UK seems to be basking in an Indian summer. At least the passing of the autumnal equinox heralds longer lie-ins of a morning, as I point blank refuse to rise before it's light enough to make ones way to the loo without switching a light on.
In general the month has treated us well with cheery sporting guests and even a "boys toys" trip to the Southampton Boat Show as the Trollaigh navy is still in need of a substantial vessel. Hotels in Southampton had decided to cash in on the show and as dearest Dottie was not prepared to mortgage her inheritance for the benefit of Holiday Inn at £250 a night we used our wind up Internet connection to seek more modest shelter. And as is often the case we struck pay dirt out near the airport in the shape of the Concorde Club and Ellington Lodge. Cole Mathieson the proprietor has, unbeknown to yours truly, run perhaps the most successful jazz club in England for many years and yes, of course one could pick a hole or two in his establishment however the attentive, friendly staff and fascinating surroundings make this a must for anyone wanting to be within a taxi ride of Southampton Water without breaking the bank. Dearest Dottie and I found perfect boats on this trip, unfortunately they were not the same one, so the search continues! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Indoors

2011-09-06T05:48:00.000-07:00

August has come and gone with not much to recommend it, a cool, cloudy but mostly dry month without sufficient sunny warmth to ripen our domestic crops; so we are searching for a good receipt for green tomato chutney and wondering if some things will over-winter which has never worked before; fruit trees are on the whole bare as strong gales in May stripped their flowers before the good bees could get their job done. The only thing which has kept growing is grass, the cutting of which is a weekly chore difficult to avoid; at least midges have more or less disappeared depleted by chilly nights. Unfortunately this absent food source has also encouraged some of our garden birds to set off on their migration a week or two early and we miss their constant chatter. A few days forced indoors has left my paperwork in good order, even my tax return has been submitted in good time, so brownie points all round.

Being forced indoors from time to time has also allowed some idle reading and I dipped into Philomena Cook's weekly Herald article which recounts the life and times of a jilted Scottish lady enjoying the warmth of Provence. One would get pretty fed up if forced to read it everyday, however the piece I picked up amusingly bemoaned the destruction left by affluent Brits in self catering freshly fettled and furnished Chateau. Many chums let their lodges nowadays to pay the grocer so it was an easy matter to carry out a straw poll of these land managers as I met up with them. In Scotland we seem to do much better than the fair francophile Philomena with hardly any reported problems be the guests Tattoos and Trackies or Range Rover and Rohan; however one Sutherland Chatelaine has removed risk from her ten bedroom holiday hide away by asking on her booking form "Do you have a maid or other domestic servant?"; if the answer is yes, then the booking is refused as the dear lady claims that such visitors are genetically incapable of clearing up after themselves or their boisterous family! Beware the trick question chaps; yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Thera Message

2011-08-14T02:19:00.000-07:00

Early August finds dearest Dottie and I being insulted by clowns and chain saw jugglers at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe which we always enjoy so much; and as on many past visits time restrictions meant that we seem to miss out on most of the more high brow events and exhibitions. However who can say that Fat Sam's Band at the Fringe by The Sea in North Berwick was in any way less enjoyable than a ballet or two "up town". A stroll along the Royal Mile filled with every cliche from groups of pregnant school girls, zombies and even Captain Hook playing the bagpipes with Peter Pan amongst the huge cheerful throng is a heart warming sight.July ended up as a good month with lots of ploys with guests enjoyed in good weather and even perhaps more surprisingly excellent progress made on the Great Hydro Scheme of Trollaigh so that we now gaze on several muddy holes rather than just the one that I have been fretting over since last October; however our engineer assures us that all is on track. The Tower of Glen Trollaigh's policies have been a bit more of a problem with strange weather patterns earlier in the year making vegetable production impossible and limited grass cutting caused by failing energy levels turning once manicured parks into vistas of tall grasses and wild flowers; actually I have come to enjoy these wilder aspects and as long as I have the muscle power to spray out any pernicious weeds I will be converted to wild and witchy gardening.
Our pedal powered Internet connection is a great help in keeping up with the increasing amount of paperwork for august public bodies; although automated responses from government departments are starting to show some weaknesses in our famous education system. E-responses normally start with "Here is confirmation of ......."; however yesterday brought "Hera confirmation of ......" doubtless those of you with a modest grasp of the Glasgow dialect will appreciate the problem! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

A proper Charlie

2011-07-12T06:10:00.000-07:00

Well, summer at long last reaches down to the Glen Trollaigh floor; temperatures hover around 20c and as we now leave a lot of grass and hay uncut lovely aromas of wild flowers and bog myrtle fill the air; dogs go rabbiting and fishermen look despondently at the low water levels in the Alt Trollaigh; which may be a pain for them however I can rub my mitts together and get stuck into the Great Hydro Scheme of Trollaigh, or rather bits of it as I still await a final permission to cross some miserable dried up stream in my sterilised wellies. One must be pleased that the huge piles of guff that accumulate on my desk are at least keeping plenty of folk in a proper job and the apple of their proud parent's eye.
Garden birds have faired well after a difficult start in wild weather, and in only a few weeks some will set off for warmer climes and be replaced by returning families of Thrushes and Blackbirds; though one bird completely missing this year is the Snipe. Thinking of those missing, campers and tourists seem a bit thin on the ground; I came upon a favourite pub that was not opening until the evening due to lack of punters at midday and a local coaching hotel remains closed. Scotland offers some of the best wild places in Europe although one does not come here for the weather; are people staying for a few days less? It cannot be a help that a second mortgage is required to top up your car up before venturing north of the Highland Line. However at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh we continue to offer gruff rural hospitality equally to those that pay and those that blag some loose family connection and it seems to work as I never have a bally moment to myself!
Talking of family blaggers we have just got rid of Charlie Fenshaw some type of distant relative who we usually manage to avoid by telling a white lie or two about our whereabouts. Blow me down if his knees were not under the breakfast table the other day as he must have slipped in under the radar. Don't get me wrong, young Charlie is an friendly type and very good at sweet talking dearest Dottie, rescuing drowning dogs, offering to clean one's gun and that sort of thing; although the downside is that he has no visible means of support and certainly no gainful employment. So you can be certain that he will devour his weight in square meals, arrive with sacks of laundry that will make even Mhairi wince and then touch you for a bob or two when he leaves. For the first time ever this time he appeared with a lithsome blonde who unfortunately seemed unfamiliar with the ways of what our patronising Council say is now to be called the "rural hinterland" of North Argyll. All went fairly well until the second night of Charlie's stay when the quiet of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh was shattered by a series of hysterical screams; one assumed that Charlie had been pressing his suit a little too strongly however it turned out that his paramour had "met something" in the corridor en route to the facilities. The something truned out to be Lachie's crouched and kilted figure delivering clean shoes and a fresh bottle of 12 year old Stag's Breath to Charlie. The following morning a lift to Dalmally Station was swiftly organised for the happy couple and Charlie did not take much persuading to vacate after discovering that both the cellar key and the wallet were now firmly in the Baronial jacket pocket. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

May Misery.

2011-06-06T01:50:00.000-07:00

Radio 4 calmly reassured us with the forecast "sunny in most places, showers in the west". Of course those of us who survive in the North Argyll Glens know better than to trust those broadcasting from London; and so we had been studying entrails, runes and seaweed for days; however even we were not prepared for the mighty tree snapping Atlantic gale that swept in from the west, always a bit of a pain in May when the trees are more or less in full leaf and there is plenty of windage in them. There's been many an anxious patrol of the immediate policies checking for damage to buildings and roofs to say nothing of the gossamer Great Polytunnels of Trollaigh. Rivers rise and flood the road, trees crash and block many major through routes, ferries stay in port and inevitably our fragile electronic infrastructure starts to buckle. Power lines crackle and pop and Internet connections go bananas to say nothing of our antique BT landlines which only require a force 3 breeze to become inaudible. One fears for those at sea and indeed those with their heavily mortgaged yachts now straining at mooring lines which were meant to be replaced last season, and ground tackle long overdue for a diver's inspection. Not a problem for yours truly as the Trollaigh navy was sold off at Easter under our spending reduction programme; however yacht brokers beware as the Baron now has a pocket full of lose change to splurge on your most excellent wares by way of a replacement.

Of course our current gales are only one element of a miserable May's worth of chilly, wet weather and as one sits indoors avoiding another downpour on the last day of the month it is safe to say that dry days in May can be counted on a few fingers of one hand and I missed them whilst touring south west Cork in the rain! Dearest Dottie and I chose May to tick one challenge off our "bucket list" and organised ourselves to walk through the Lairig Ghru in the Cairngorm mountains. For those of you who have never heard of this spot of spectacular mountain wilderness the "Ghru" is a taxing 20 mile walk through the mountains roughly between Aviemore and Braemar; and despite the risk of upsetting the "wild land" police we walked the route in some style with friends, their children and their dogs; chasing wild Deer, Goats and even putting a Ptarmigan or two up from its nest; although in fairness we were forced from time to time to shelter from snow, hail and gales of wind, to say nothing of wading highland burns in full spate. Encouraged by our company we managed the 20 miles in 11 hours after a 7.00am start which was perhaps unwise after the traditional excellent meal and refreshment at The Old Bridge Inn, Aviemore the night before. Alas Braemar failed to meet the challenge on the hospitality stakes, despite a substantial gin stiffener on arrival; as all we wanted was a clean bed and a hot bath; the former was provided at The Fife Arms however the latter as substituted with a lukewarm shower, not appreciated by dearest Dottie. Fortunately The Gathering Place Bistro fed us and offered shelter from the 100's of pensioners dressed in grey poly cotton and shod in white tennis shoes who now fill the Braemar streets; but we did add a bit of fun by smuggling wet dogs into the pet free Fife Arms accommodation in empty suitcases, porters fortified by a sporting Chilean Carmanere.

We really enjoyed ourselves and now look to other low walks for the autumn or next spring; are there any volunteers for the Corrieyairack? Some loon has already texted suggesting the 4 day Compestello thingy in northern Spain however I feel that may be a bit arduous for the dogs, although dearest Dottie would have no problems! The long range forecast now shows frost for next Friday night, what have we done to deserve this? Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Well, I wouldn't start from here.

2011-05-08T08:44:00.000-07:00

I have been very lazy and taken a holiday just when I should be scribbling a few monthly thoughts, so my sincere apologies to you my faithfully readers who may well have assumed that I had swilled my last Hendrick's and tonic and was now toes up on my way to enlightenment and the pearly gates. Dearest Dottie decided it was time for a new raincoat and as a decent one can only be obtained from Winnie Magee of Comber, Northern Ireland nothing would do save turning Otto's head across the North Channel and a quick tour of the emerald isle armed only with Alistair Sawday's unbeatable "Special Places to Stay" and an thick wad of euros. Things did not get off to an auspicious start as after getting up early, travelled many miles and crossing an ocean dear Winnie's shop was shut; we were forced to retire to the Dufferin Arms at Killyleagh and return on the morrow. A further bum steer was to be tempted away from Alistair Sawday and purchase the "Bridgestone Guide to the top 100 places to stay in Ireland"; I do not know the editors of this organ, however I certainly would not recommend it to others as the couple of spots we tried were certainly not of the first water. The Irish remain a wonderfully friendly, hospitable race and we received excellent service and kindness throughout our cruise and I note below a thumbnail of our schedule.

The Dufferin Arms, Killyleagh. Raincoat shopping and touring Strangford Lough.

Two nights at The Connemara Coast Hotel. Searching for and finding an old chum in Galway and sitting reading on the beach.

Berry Lodge, Spanish Head, County Claire. The Burren; Cliff Walking and watching surfers at Lahinch.

Two nights at Garnish House, Cork. Exploring Kinsale and West Cork as far as Mizzen Head; Guinness in Baltimore topped the trip; slightly scary though very enjoyable night amongst the Hen parties and 600 strong Lesbian festival in Cork City in pouring rain!

Joan Nugent's Castle Country House, Millstreet. County Waterford. Via Blarney where dearest Dottie kissed The Stone, surrounded by good gardens. Particularly enjoyed Ardmore.

Butler House, Kilkenny. Amongst other things discovered the JFK arboretum, perhaps one of the best public space designs I have ever seen; difficult not to shop in Kilkenny.

Ghan House, Carlingford, County Louth. Chef's night off though we did well at Magee's. Then home via Glenarm and Larne.

Best Meal: Rita Meade at Berry Lodge.

Best Bedroom: Joan Nugent at Millstreet.

Best Breakfast: Dufferin Arms.

Best Bathroom: Butler House, Kilkenny.

Best moment: Guinness at Baltimore.

Worst moment: Garnish House, Cork.

Best unexpected venue: JFK arboretum. County Wexford.

We had wonderful friendly service everywhere, but I have to mention Bodega at Waterford and The Fish Hatch in Cork.

First best tip: Never touch, eat or drink anything on a P&O ferry; they ought to be prosecuted.

Second best tip: Never ask an Irishman for directions; its wonderful however you will be geographically lost for ever and the advice frequently starts "well, I wouldn't start from here"!

I will be updating you with more local scandal in a week or so; I remain yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Whitehall 1212.

2011-03-31T05:20:00.000-07:00

Outdoor tasks have been abandoned and once again I am writing as southerly gales batter the Tower of Glen Trollaigh and rather wet rain hoses the windows. March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb, however it seems to have got a bit muddled this year. An old cove claimed that we have had an unusually long winter and perhaps he is right as we endured heavy snow and hard frosts right from late November, two or three weeks earlier than usual. Of course the pundits are also casting the runes on the 2011 midge population numbers, some say the snow will have insulated them and there will be record plagues; whilst other suggest that our sub zero January will have killed the blighters off and it will be all shirt sleeve order and barbeque throughout the Argyll summer!

I am looking ahead to spring with some reluctance as setting aside the climate I rather enjoy the peace and quiet of our winter months. Guests and visiting relatives are few, apart from the usual festivals, and those that visit know what to expect and what is expected of them, so there are normally mornings when one can lie abed and dark afternoons when it is quite permissible to dismiss the servants and curl up, stockinged feet on sofa, in front of a roaring fire with draft excluding dogs for company and read a good book undisturbed. Our March guests have been exceptional not only generously helping with The Baron's madcap schemes, often involving stretched sinews and hangovers, but also, and very unlike our summer visitors, restocking the Tower of Glen Trollaigh cellars with lots of goodies, far in excess of their consumption of the same. You are very welcome back at anytime!

March has many milestones from the welcome decrease in the feeding of wild birds, which thanks to guilt ridden marketing by those RSPB bastards now costs me an arm and a leg; to the drastic reduction in the temperature settings of both the central heating and Mhairi's AGA. Of course there are also those last few mornings of GMT when early light has man and mutt leaping eagerly out of bed at 6.00am, until some ghastly Brusselles inspired thing called UTC plus 1 has us all groggy for a several weeks. Changing the clocks used to be a pleasure accompanying the arrival of Oystercatchers, Wagtails and Frog Spawn; now technology also plays a complicating hand, as demonstrated in the Baronial Mercedes. It took me an age to discover that there is no small but simple knob to twiddle, instead after reading several pages of complex handbook I learned that time can only be altered via the "Command" system whose soul purpose seems to be to assume command, rather than to be commanded.

Dearest Dottie and I have also travelled away for a little stimulation; an hearty dinner was enjoyed in the refurbished though still cavernous "Greyhound" in Shap; their excellent local lamb dishes seem to have disappeared in the refurbishment; followed by an interesting night at Low Jock Scar. The Wapping flat kept us safe when the Baronial Bottom warmed the Twickers debenture seats at a very disappointing, indeed boring Calcutta Cup. I suppose the only major niggle this March has been the marked increase of incoming wrong numbers, I even spent some time with a persistant Belfaster wanting to ascertain her baggage allowance on a pre-booked Scottish bus tour, I have to admit with some shame that the only way out was to reassure her that "2 or 3 suitcases" would be fine; I only pray that the dear lady was not turned away at the terminus. In the old days of Whitehall 1212 at least one knew that Scotland Yard was on the other end and not a house of ill repute in Inverness; and anyway I thought everyone twittered and networked socially these days; telephones being the reserve of graduates in Mumbai. For those of us still in winter's grip, here's to a warming spring! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

The Charmed life and Hard Times of Alarm Clocks.

2011-02-27T02:34:00.000-08:00

Apart from the odd furtive search for a drinking voucher, I studiously avoid investigating the interior of ladies handbags. However I have noticed that as dearest Dottie gets on a bit, some oddities do emerge from the cavernous Anta. Only recently whilst dearest Dottie was riding shotgun in Otto on an M6 blast, I spotted her slightly surprised look when she pulled out an unexpected handful of Jelly Beans wrapped in a tissue, origin unknown! This leads me to alarm clocks, an object I have always rather avoided, as my Father, the 14th Baron Trollaigh, always warned that ill timed settings could cause seizure or even death in the early hours, to say nothing of bed wetting or worse.
Be that as it may dearest Dottie has a basic black alarm clock that must have, over the years, seen many a hard knock as well as witnessing many moments of wondrous gladness and sorrow; the clock's nine lives are legend, I can certainly attest to collecting it from a Queensland ditch after its unprovoked ejection from a suitcase unwisely balanced on the roof rack of a '70s VW campervan. However perhaps it's time was up when it was posted missing after a recent night or two at the Royal Southern Yacht Club, Hamble; when all hope was lost, yes you have guessed, the bloody thing popped out of dearest Dotties bag some days later!
Along with winter one hears that ASBOs are now behind us; to be honest electronic tagging is not common in the reckless wastes of Glen Trollaigh, although when I see some of our summer campers I am strongly tempted to restrain something or indeed any limb that might be to hand. the camper's behaviour makes that of the ravenous members of our low-key local hunt seem positively benign, as they tally-ho onto the great lawns of Trollaigh for a deep draft of the Baronial stirrup cup.
However we must not take things for granted as a stronger sun starts to warm us and thoughts change from the endless lists of indoor DIY to those of outdoor chores; perhaps even the odd picnic day away. The snow is still thick on the ridges and although bird song fills the mornings, sharp frosts drive me into the comforts of the Great Bed of Trollaigh and the ticking of dearest Dotties bally black alarm clock. How can I get rid of the pesky thing once and for all? Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Butts and Bots.

2011-01-22T09:15:00.000-08:00

It is a great relief to know that we do not have to fear rampant inflation anymore, as the very word has been removed from the lexicon and replaced by the Retail Price Index which is safely increasing at a paltry 4% per annum, only twice the rate of the old measure that we worried about so unnecessarily. However confusion still reigns over the official Crime Figures which the Boys in Blue assure us are falling dramatically, yet the National Crime Statistics show a marked increase in the likelihood that we shall all be murdered in our beds. Perhaps a calming name change will reassure us, such as the knowledge that although we still have a few unfortunate unemployed, most have been re-classified as "Economically Inactive" and so they have nothing to worry about, I feel so much better! However my own measure shows that it now costs almost £6 a day to fire up Mhairi's AGA, 20 years ago it cost 70 pence; although I am famously hopeless with maths, at best it should now be about £3 per day; so that must be called inflation. On the same theme I hear constant complaints about the price of road fuel charged in our cities versus the price in our more rural districts which can be anything up to 25 pence per litre higher. The answer is simple, reverse the premium and let the cities pay the higher charge, for they enjoy the alternative of public transport and shorter car journeys, whilst we rednecks suffer a round trip of three hours to buy a frock or to visit a cinema, with little or no alternative transport. Of course it is all greed and taxes anyway, as an old Nabob chum assured me from his Malaysian tea plantation's veranda via Facetube a day or so ago, as it still only costs a tenner to fill his VW Golf in the jungle.

As uplifting Crossbill's spring song fills Glen Trollaigh, one has to take one's hat off to the ladies; here am I looking wistfully after five year's work, at a frozen building site from which one day will spring the throbbing Great Hydro Electric Scheme of Trollaigh, to say nothing of spending far too much time dreaming of planting vineyards and selecting a comfortable cruising yacht to enjoy some warm weather on the costas in my latter years. When suddenly dearest Dottie with only a passing reference to yours truly and the family bankers has placed an order for 21 photovoltaic solar panels which are to be attached to the south facing castillations within a fortnight and will apparently provide electricity as well attract a healthy government subsidy. Mind you success depends on Lachie digging some fairly serious cable ducts in the perma frost so there may be some delay as I am certain that his back is not up to it.

Efficiency is in dearest Dottie's genes as a generation or so back her family were the famous Butts of Botany Bay, a fine collection of Men of The Cloth who with great philanthropy and kindness gently guided the "First Fleeters" of Australia on to better things. By happenchance the good brothers felt that their family name was in some way inappropriate in a predominantly male society and changed their name to "Bots", little did they know this would become an equally embarrassing scourge of a virtual kind. One legacy of the Bots has been dearest Dottie's firm belief that incarceration is the only rehabilitation for the hardened criminal; in fact she silenced our otherwise vocal and PC local Councillors by suggesting that "convicts" should undertake clearing our 5 mile snowbound link with the outside world. One can only assume that the dear soul imagined a black van delivering a rough gang of rogues in cotton jymjams overprinted with black arrows, muttering darkly as the shovels are handed out by armed guards. Come to think of it there may be a fashion statement in there, although heavy iron manacles might chafe a bit.

Apart from an early morning earthquake in Fort William, the only local news topic has been much debate about time zones. I have to admit that all the clocks in the Tower of Glen Trollaigh remain firmly set on UTC plus 1 hour throughout the winter months and the only confusion occurs when one is trying to unravel an unfathomable rail or ferry time table which does not relate to the old Rolex. This Trollaigh Time combines nicely my lifelong rule not to rise from the Great Bed of Trollaigh until I can see what I am doing without switching on expensive and irresponsible artificial light; although it is still not uncommon for residents of the North Argyll Glens to remain tucked up in bed between the old new year's day (5th January) and Lent. And perhaps more importantly I can, with a clear conscience, raise a Hendrick's and Tonic an hour earlier than you, dear reader. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

A Happy New Year?

2011-01-04T13:03:00.000-08:00

Even I have to admit its been a wonderful Christmas. Almost every surviving Trollaigh relative as been to stay, indeed a couple are still with us, ignoring the now obvious and urgent hints that it is time to leave. I have to admit that at times it has been a bit of a struggle as our water supply which I constantly monitor froze solid, Mhairi's AGA is barely holding out, several header tanks are dry, my beloved shed doors distorted and jammed, chickens started to moult and refused to lay, the washing machine gave up, as did the dish washer; all our water filters clogged as one, the log splitter is kaput and to add insult to injury my faithful Land Rover shed her clutch just when I needed her most. Priorities become an interest as while I sweated blood round the clock to keep some water available for baths, or to provide enough heat to roast a Turkey or four, several guests became quite shirty when their i-phone apps failed to wake them up in time for the traditional New Year's day shoot.

Because airports were shut down by snow I had to make an after midnight dash to collect family from Central Station, Glasgow on the Saturday before Christmas. I have since been told that was the most popular night of the year for office parties and the sights I saw were not to be seen on any old Saturday night nor for the faint hearted, suffice to say Santas of every gender and dress code seemed to be either vomiting or fornicating in public; and visible blue blubber seemed to stave off frostbite rather than sensible layers of woolly clothing. I have to salute the Glasgow police who were most helpful as I tried to unravel the frankly hopeless train arrivals board and I was very impressed by gangs of Glasgow City Council workers who were, even at that hour sluicing down the ghastly mess on the pavements. Certainly if this is the level to which the Hoi Polloi have sunk, god help us all as one can only assume that these "persons" were bank clerks, civil servants and SNH employees of some standing and training, perhaps even a PhD or two amongst the chip throwers.

In The Tower of Glen Trollaigh tradition reigned supreme with 10 year old card sharps distracting the old from comparing the ting of sherry glasses with the ting of Christmas Tree decorations and all guests are to be commended for ignoring the rather "one sided" profile of the this year's Great Christmas Tree of Trollaigh, not helped by several strings of lights being more off than on. Several guests brought their fair share of generous gifts and goodies for which many thanks; although one codger could only produce from his welly a bottle of second rate red, the top of which had already been unscrewed and a good slurp removed before arrival.

Snow lay deep, frosts froze, landscapes were Alpine and carols spread their magic with candles and lamps held high; as far as I could tell the whole family seemed to survive without too many sense of humour failures, or at least everyone had the good grace not to show it! Of course in this bleak midwinter we have not caught sight of a single council service, no road gritters, no bin men etc. although the new tactic of mid management civil servants promoted to the level of their incompetence is to trumpet to the highest the "heroes" who are giving their all to provide us with everything we could possibly want, apart that is from any sort of result, but remember that they are working night and day doing their best, ha ha! Although a mole has admitted that some buffoon decreed that school heating systems should be switched off over the Christmas holidays to save some dosh.One has to wonder if he or indeed she will survive to draw the enchanced pension package. As VAT rises to 20%, road fuel heads toward £1.50 per litre and beer breaks through the £3 a pint; I can safely say it has been one of the best Christmases I have ever had, so let's give three cheers to a bloody good 2011. Yours aye, Archie The Baron Trolliagh.

Lost in Translation

2010-12-12T09:48:00.000-08:00

It never ceases to amaze me just how much time it takes to keep the old Baronial pile going. Perhaps I lived a charmed youth, for it seemed that I had plenty of time for a successful career, time for entertaining friends, time for field sports, sailing, skiing, travelling, time to give to the community, give the church, even time for the occasional gruff exchange with the family and the old place seemed to look after itself. Now, when I am not feverishly chopping logs I am to be found up ladders with a bag of hand tools or a paint brush, perhaps digging into some long lost nook or cranny to persuade a frozen water pipe back to life; plumbing and electrics hold no fear and indeed the only thing that has slowed down my maniacal pursuit of DIY perfection is the terrible lack of parts, as every cold snap strips the merchant's shelves of the vital 22mm elbow required to restore water to some distant loo. I suppose in the old days one did not think twice about summoning the plumber from Dalmally to attend to a problem and when sorted there was much fore-lock tugging, perhaps a dram and six months later a bill would appear for 2/6 pence. Nowadays if you can find a plumber its £75 before he or she opens the van door to tut tut and professionally suck their teeth whilst pondering the mysteries of the 4th Baron's pipe work; unfortunately a relative unfamiliar with the principles either of gravity or with insulation.

I have also experienced a life changing experience. For at a recent church social, of necessity in the evening for I cannot afford to lose a moment's daylight on my chores, I casually chided our sensible female pastor on some minor point of ecclesiastical law and the layman's interpretation of last Sunday's slightly wandered sermon. After a moment's reflection she said "you know, you're never happy". It was a bit of a slap in the face, but when I went to look at that self same vizog in the mirror; I don't look happy. One should make allowances for Anno Dominii, the flushed, course skin, the lines drawing a petulant mouth, bushy eyebrows and bald head fringed with grey giving a slight hint of insanity. Yet here I am surrounded by scenery and history envied by thousands, living a comfortable life, free from most worry; so time to buck up old boy and be happy, think of the alternative, seems a good ploy. Now where has dearest Dottie hidden that bottle of the new "Botanist" gin from Islay!

One had to laugh at the recent "lost in Translation" incident with the Holy Father when he did not realize that there is no Italian phrase for Male Prostitute and so unwittingly launched much speculation about a Papal easing of the strict anti contraceptive teachings of the Roman Church. A distant chum bought an elderly VW golf diesel on ebay and was amazed to see Cardinal Ratzinger listed as a previous owner. This naturally increased the value of the bodile by many hundreds, ney thousands of percentage points. Should one rejoice at the thought of possessing a priceless personal pope mobile or should one dourly contemplate the ignorance of some motor traders; for once I am definitely happy. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Autumn Diddilee Tum Tum.

2010-11-07T02:17:00.000-08:00

For many, many years tradition has sent the male Trollaighs to London at this time to attend the Lord Mayor's Banquet and then freeze at the Cenotaph as honorary Colonels of the long defunct 6th Glen Trollaigh Yeomen Rifles. Whilst seated near the top table at the LMB my father heard Sir Winston expound the virtues of the 19 shillings and 6 pence in the pound higher rate tax; from a slightly lower table position I heard Norman Lamont trying to explain away 18% interest rates. However those heady days of influence have passed by, for along with many land mangers and ex service personnel my invitation to either event did not arrive this year. I believe that little known old codgers have been swept away in favour of premier league footballers who are already "friends" with HRH on Facebook, or "facetube" as one of my Luddite neighbours calls it, he who is considerably more elevated than I and even closer to the HRH blood line has also suffered the same social downgrading due to non celebrity status. I suppose that fit and healthy youth in a sharp suit has more clout that some whiskered buffer in a white tie; one must be thankful that at least one will not bow out being mistaken for a waiter and hailed as "Jimmy" by some Chav ordering more Krug, as happened to a Scottish Duke at a recent London ball.

Speaking of balls and footballers, a small white terrier cross seems to have found his way into the Trollaigh pack, and he takes the most tremendous delight in high speed, virtuoso dribbling of a hard football twice his size. This almost led to his untimely demise a couple of days ago; for as I was idlely poking at weeds with a walking stick on the banks of the Alt Trollaigh I was surprised to see a football zipping past in the current, low and behold I realised that there was a small white mutt holding it aloft "a la Walrus". Swift action was called for as the water was freezing and far too deep for a non swimmer; as the dog went down for the fifth time I managed to hook the ball out of the water at which point a small white rocket rose vertically from the depths trying to recapture his favourite toy, I've never see anything like it. I struggled to get him back alive to the Great Tower of Trollaigh and the healing powers of Mhairi's aga. Even when sanity was restored the dog followed me around all day with pleading eye and tail a-wag hoping that I would release the bally ball for more death defying games; rather like a cat I fear that this dog may only have nine lives.

However back to the point; this year is my first ever in Glen Trollaigh in early November and it is truly awe inspiring; the water is clear and icy, the Beech leaves fall and drift, all is red and gold with the Larches fragile and bright. Travelling Waxwings, Redwings and Fieldfares squabble over our berries, Owls hoot and Birds Of Prey pounce on mice that they would have rejected a month ago. Our meagre 45 degree arc of sun from 11.00 til 17.00 is hard to bear and even a short heavy shower of rain depresses the soul. To cheer us many local winter activities start up; SWRI, dances, bitch and knit, indoor bowls, race nights, book clubs, curling and many bonfires and social gatherings. However one must beware the competitive nature of even these simple pleasures and the local Vicar has spotted, in her spare time, that there might have been some suspiciously soft marking of answers in her quiz nights, so a referee has been appointed to the next one in the Crianlarich Hotel. Hopefully it will all come to snarling blows amongst the OAPs in the time honoured West Highland tradition and firm Christian freinds will fall out over a simple dot or a T never to be reconciled; I for one will cheering from the rafters as all this fall-out may detract from the mooted redecoration of the south wing loo, where I am fighting for my life to retain an avocado khasi with its excellent flush, against a modern "low flush" white pedestal. Why, oh why can the female of the species not leave things as they are? What can be wrong with Avocado? Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh

Turkey Before Christmas.

2010-10-05T04:39:00.000-07:00

The dog's soft noses scent the south breeze as the aroma of well fed deer starts to fill Glen Trollaigh. The deer are moving down the mountain sides to the river bank parks which are still covered in rich green grass despite one sub zero night, to roar and rut; parental responsibility for this and last year's calves forgotten as the hormones kick in. This is one of Scotland's most magical times as the roars of challenge echo round the darkening glens, bracken black, leaves aturn and evening shadows lengthening at 6.00 pm. Without thinking I pull on a woollen jumper each morning, unthinkable a week or two ago and a fire crackles in the library fireplace at night. Most stalking guests have headed south to the city, polishing up their Purdeys for the winter gamebird shooting season, lines pegged in Norfolk or Devon, impossibly high birds the aim. Here in Glen Trollaigh I pack away guns and rods, for although some men fish on till the end of October, I think it is a month too late if conservation of stocks is the goal; hoping now only for a day or two with dogs and rough shooting for the pot on a neighbour's land between now and the end of January.

Dearest Dottie and I have just returned from Turkey to where we were inveigled by a bunch of shooting stick supported ex-army officers keen to acquire the sailing skills of yours truly; although it has to be said that despite the officer's considerable age we had to admire their ability to attract some lovely memshaibs, perhaps of a certain age, however they were certainly in no need of even the most simple of enhancements. We liked Turkey, a goodly number of ex-pats who since the 60's have migrated from Provence via the Balearic's, Portugal and the Spanish Costas seeking fair prices and even fairer weather have settled here and we can't say we blame them. Turkey not only has a wonderfully friendly and entrepreneurial people, but also enjoys the only booming economy in "Europe". The populous perhaps unwisely desire the Euro though still the minarets chant the call to prayer from dawn. Best summed up as a country I would return to, not for the sailing, but certainly to explore the land side where many civilisations have met, despite the current risk of having parts of the baronial corps blown apart by those feisty Kurds.

On the nautical side our fleet split into those who ploughed east of the 7 capes towards Syria and in search of a NATO style experience had to endure 45 knots across the deck with anxious nights dragging anchors. Then the more sensible of us who enjoyed beach bars, blue skies and crystal seas amongst the islands to the Aegean west. I tried hard to educate, however some yachts chose to ignore my advice and went on to lose large chunks of fibreglass in the early hours, foul props with mooring line, fill diesel tanks with water, carry away stanchions, tear sails and foul anchors, to say nothing of some frankly scary basic boat handling. I wouldn't do it again, but hopefully many new friendships will be born and perhaps a few people will venture into the north argyll glens and coasts to sample the undeniable delights of temperate sailing still under the influence of the Union Jack. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

A lot of Ologies.

2010-09-06T07:56:00.000-07:00

A stiff nor'eastly buffets the solid walls of the Tower of Trollaigh, combing old branches from the beech trees; frequent capfuls of rain rattle the library windows and the dogs stay close to Mhairi's Aga. Our swooping, looping Swallows and House Martins seem determined to leave for sunnier climes, I suppose in a way this is good news as if they tarry they will attempt a third brood which always ends in disaster; now the bracken turns and chilly, dark nights lie ahead.
Having complained about stormy weather I must admit that we enjoyed a wonderful, warm and sunny week last week, even stretching to almost unheard of fair weather for the Dalmally show. The gaggle of locals supporting the beer tent even stravaiged out into the relative health of fresh air and hard standing from whence to hurl well rehearsed "bon mot" at lusty young pram pushing mums, whom I am pleased to say gave as good as they got, as in truth the sanity of several of the beer drinkers forebears must be questionable. Glen Trollaigh failed to win a prize in any section although I am certain that if a prize were offered for bizarre vegetables our current crop of carrots would win hands down.
Much of the "trade stand" space is now filled by government agencies whose young staff are mostly ignorant of their employers purpose and are certainly deficient in even the most basic man management skills. I spotted several local worthies stomping off in high dudgeon having failed to get any answer to even their most simple, polite questions addressed to SEPA apart from surly bureaucratic double speak delivered by a youth whose permanently attached sunglasses barely disguised the acne, whilst of course the questioners receivied a leaflet and a free eco pencil. Thank goodness the National Parks Authority failed to show after their appalling and patronising refusal to grant planning permission to the Cononish Gold Mine last week, blood would certainly have been spilled. However I understand that their "no show" was because none of their 22 (yes 22) board members could find the time to represent any creaking ship of state, or possibly the afore mentioned risk of lynching by an angry mob might have put them off.
In fairness I must add that stupid quangos and agencies complete with useless untrained staff did provide some entertainment as the air ambulance evacuated several employees of the Department of Energy and Climate Change with suspected allergic reaction to midge bites; and a number of bearded (of both sexes) members of the John Muir Trust rolled in the dust and bit each other over disputed car parking rights for their Toyota Prii at the end of a long and trying day under the gaze, as JM himself would have seen it, of the great unwashed Argyll hoi polloi.
Despite constant urging to visit Ostemyologists and Kinesiologists to take the unbearable pressure off the NHS, things are pretty bad in the north Argyll glens. House prices tumble, public services are slashed and during the Double Dip even good old Adam & Co, reliable bankers to the toffs, have written to one and all advising that unless they have a quarter of a million of one's wonga on deposit at derisory rates, it will cost £500 a year to flash the Adam "sans limit" gold card and feel the thickly embossed cheques. One suspects that the actuaries have looked into the tea leaves at the bottom of the corporate cup and worked out the client attrition rates, however I for one will be heading to the high street where presumably charges will eventually follow; though I suspect many will cough up for the undeniable comfort and privilege. Personally I am more concerned with bogged campervans, which seem to have chosen 2010 to venture were no campervan has ever ventured before, and whether to use green or black recycled poly to bag up our silage. Whilst considering myself fortunate to have a modest earned income, it is now fairly commonplace in these belegered parts to see a titled personage or two working part time in a retail environment near you as the harsh reality of rural living begins to bite and a few beans are needed for a bottle or so of Krug at Sunday's luncheon party. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

One Hundred Thousand Welcomes

2010-08-13T01:57:00.000-07:00

The corks are fairly popping at Arichastlich, Glen Orchy with the safe arrival of James Fred Kerr in Glasgow a few days later than expected. Weighing in at a healthy 9lbs 11ozs both mother and child are well. The Glen Orchy Kerrs can heave a sigh of great relief that the family name, in serious danger of dying out will now be saved for posterity.

Outdoorsman's Weather

2010-08-02T03:19:00.000-07:00

Many traditional Scottish West Coast summer events are now underway; highland games and gatherings; field sports; music and folk festivals; agricultural shows; seafood guzzling festivals; golfing tournaments, Royal spotting, yacht races and regattas or on occasions a combination of some or all of the afore mentioned.
Then of course there are those dear visitors suffering the terrors of a scottish highland summer holiday. My eyes fairly fill with thankfulness on a Saturday morning as I watch the streams of northbound cars on the A82, back-ends scraping the tarmac laden with half a household and hundreds of loo rolls (for its a well know fact that soft sanitary loo rolls and safe drinking water are not available north of the Oxford Waitrose); roof and boot racks fairly groan with canoes, kayaks, bikes and golf bags; and perhaps every fifth car tows a smart sailing dinghy. Gravel eyed children, exams and school sports behind them ignoring the scenery of dark Rannoch, shoulder each other on the back seat, thumbs firmly attached to Gameboys and ipads; eager mums lean forward glancing warily from map to road, caffine fueled dads settle into the last few hours of a twelve hour overnight drive from the south.
However by Tuesday the laptop batteries will be flat, the lack of telly forgotten, lippy cast aside as honest English families squeezed into drafty crofthouses will embrace the Ernest Thompson Seton holidays that we all loved so much. Even the most pubescent teenager's pheromone gloom will surely be lifted by the unbelievable exploits of McNab and Gaythorne-Hardy. Gales of wind, torrents of rain, freezing waves and rip tides, sand flies and hordes of midges will not stop the road to health and new friends and enemies. On the same Saturdays from high above Loch Tulla I watch the cars roll south after a week or perhaps even two in the highlands, windows misted by piles of damp clothes, rear suspensions uncoiled after kilos of food have been burnt on a hundred beach barbecues, a few bootles emptied in good company. Now the children sleep, hair spun sun bleached, heather and bog myrtle scented anoraks still firmly in place, absently scratching at the odd midge or tick scab lost on brown salty skin. The boys dream of that corker from Ayr, the girls snuggle with the Glenalmond boy and opportunities missed. Dad sleeps waiting his turn to motorway bash southwards from Hamilton or Tebay, fitfully scheming of telecottaging his career from Scourie or Sandwood. Sensible mums drive, ticking off the practical list of shopping, washing, church fete, new school term. However I like to think that she also thinks of new names to add to her Christmas card list; maybe a lingering smile about the tall guy who always wore shorts whatever the weather with that mousy wife; innocent thoughts, platonic of course but perhaps one day a lifting of kindred spirits.
And just look at the traffic flowing north, who will soon sit in her favourite chair, struggle with the Esse, enjoy the view, who will learn about the safest passing places on the A836 and discover the delights of grilled fresh Flounders and Mackerel? I know many of you will return, perhaps a few next year with a brave dog and a bigger dinghy, perhaps some will not return for many years; however we need you. How much better to let your children run on a glorious highland day than to lose their innocence choking in the horror of an underage disco on Kos. Hopefully many young part-time highlanders will go on to learn from the missed cast in a boiling pool, the duffed "easy" shot on the hillside as ours did, and help us old codgers keep the most wonderful wilderness alive. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh

Pets are Free.

2010-07-08T02:38:00.000-07:00

By some magic of the Internet a version of this prose other than the final draft has been launched; this I think is the correct epistle, all the best, Archie.

It was always at this time of year that we took our family holidays on the Isle of Colonsay, so it comes as no surprise that at long last the old Atlantic jet stream has started to throw low pressure systems onto the west coast of Argyll and we receive much needed rain. River levels have risen by several feet and poorly maintained gutters on the Tower of Glen Trollaigh spout water onto sheltering gardeners below. At long last the fly box is being studied, 14 foot rods dusted off and the steady swish of elderly casting can be detected from the secret swirling pools of the upper Alt Trollaigh where Dippers dip and brave Whinchats defend their young. One must suppose that tiny holiday makers on Colonsay clad in sand shoes, shorts and a heavily padded anoraks still shelter below the overhanging rocks of Cable Bay, while damp parents cajole them onto the wind stiffened, rain soaked sands. Soggy families return to their chilly room and board, where shivering, teeth chattering children are accommodated at a discount and pets have to pay, whereas any fool knows having experienced the holiday housework that children should be charged double and pets are free.

The zeal of the convert grips Glen Trollaigh as dearest Dottie has found, on a recent jolly to Islay, a whisky she likes; Bruichladdich. Dearest Dottie normally inbides a good cognac or the odd sip of wine, however "the laddie" is now just the thing and checking up on the baronial cosumption long forgotten. Whilst we wandered round several Celtic Crosses and tripped over the odd grave slab, I also seized the opportunity to visit my chums at Ardbeg. Slightly to my chagrin not only did I receive a rather frosty reception but we were also overcharged in the restaurant. So the good news for all you chaps who are wary of accepting a Glen Trollaigh dram from the paint stripper shores, you will now be pleased to hear that like dearest Dottie and I have changed allegiance to the calmer waters of Loch Indaal.

Whilst jogging around the Hebridean tombs I much enjoyed deciphering the many interesting epitaphs and although some may seem strange to the modern enquirer, nothing could have prepared me for the sight on the Bridgend Hotel telly of one of those alarming modern shrines to stupidity glorifying some lardy bullet head from Essex who has launched himself and his beloved black BMW into the shrubbery. I fairly choked on the dram when the camera softly zoomed into the message on one tasteless cellophaned floral tribute whose message read "sadly mist". One can only hope that visibility was indeed reduced at the time of the accident, otherwise all hope is lost. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Spring Forward.

2010-06-08T01:38:00.000-07:00

Here in the North Argyll Glens we seldom enjoy a spring and this year has proved the point as we have moved seamlessly from a long, cold winter straight into high summer complete with ticks, midges and many other biting fiends; the cuckoo's constant performance close to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh is becoming a tad irritating, however calling male Grasshopper Warblers provide an unexpected bonus. Another obvious feature of this year has been a great lack of water, no serious rain has fallen here for six months and our rivers are as low as anyone can remember. Having mentioned the absence of the wet stuff the heavens will doubtless now open for 40 days and 40 nights.

When the midges permit us we are spending most of our time in the garden and of course the Great Polytunnel of Trollaigh where we have been propagating a wonderful array of weeds amongst our beds of veg, this explosion of growth is supported by constant irrigation from a new water supply commissioned for the purpose. We have tried to stick to organic principles although we have come pretty close to the edge when competing with slugs for our food. In the wider landscape I fear we are not quite so pure; having polished off our organic yogurt and fruit breakfast one must struggle into a knapsack sprayer of Roundup and spend an hour or so battling with our acres of Dockens. Bracken is also being tackled this year by simply chopping it down in test areas, certainly where we have done this early heather and lots of regenerating saplings are attracting zillions of buzzing insects, but whether or not we can keep the bally stuff at bay I know not.

Whilst fishermen shun us because of low water, a train derailment and subsequent indefinite trunk road closure has effectively cut us off and rendered our sleepy backwater even sleepier than normal and I fear for the prosperity of our delicately balanced rural economy. Needless to say a lack of leadership amongst the quangos has not lead to any resolution of our transport problems, rather all "the stakeholders" have formed a steering group. I feel duty bound to warn this group of "managers" that although you may feel free to ignore the rednecks, when Mr Tesco twigs that his takings in Oban are slipping you will all be out levering and pushing that damned train back onto the track by hand, in double quick time! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Old Father Thames.

2010-05-04T12:48:00.000-07:00

Volcanic ash clouds that to some indicate the immintent arrival of aliens, fairly interfered with my weekend. I needed to pop down to London to supervise the final tax free transfer of the Highbury House to the girls before Light Weight Cameron abolishes such very reasonable family schemes and then move my few modest bachelor posessions into a simple Thames side appartment in Wapping High Street next to the Captain Kidd pub (the crash pad's 100 square metres being valued only marginally less than that of all mighty Glen Trollaigh's extensive acres; perhaps the single parking space made up the difference!). However, as I wait for my enoblement to Daring David's new lib/tory House of Lords, Wapping seemed a fairly handy spot now that the refurbished tube line can whisk me to Westminster in time for the member's bar opening hour. Back to the plot; I was reluctant to accept the enevitable result of air travel and risk being stuck in London for weeks, and as Lord Virgin has bumped up his rail fares and reduced his seats nothing would do but I had to set the cruise control on Otto for a serious bash down the M6 I even had the correct change for the M6 toll Indeed all was well until some pillock spun his Cortina at junction number1, then the final 70 odd miles took 4 hours. My travails were justified with a stunning evening with the girls and their assorted legal beavers shouting the night away at The String Ray,in the company of amongst others Tanis Lawful-Proctor, a genuine witch who reintroduced me the wonderful world of faggots, those rich and warming English haggi. Before sinking gravel eyed into the 10th Baron's four poster for a final night at Highbury Terrace. Here's hoping that the girls will carry on with all the racy traditions of number 16. Now it's to be Futons, minamalism and eateries with only four wines on the list for yours truly.

Sun up and it's time to set crontrols to stun and "Tracey" the navigator for home and off we blast for an all together faster trip, challanged only by the odd Porche and one Rolls Royce convertible Silver Something which was hampered by stopping at every fuel pump it passed, we fairly covered the ground. My chosen stop being Tebay, perhaps unwise on a spring Sunday afternoon. The gents was seriously overcrowded despite it's Dyson "air blades" and foul fat people flowed through the foyer. A visit to the farm shop allowed the purchase of good foodie gifts to smooth dearest Dottie's anxiousness at my hedonistic London trip. Here however my in-built alarms over unless and over priced items failed me for amongst a basket full of excellent cheeses, at £7.99 I purchased a heavy bottle of "Bread Dipper" full of oils and spices, visualising a sunny Great Terrace of Trollaigh sitting side by side with my beloved, a generous sploosh in hand and warm fresh bread dipped before comsumption. I am not in favour of the food miles generated by heavy bottles, save for the odd Chilean Chardonnay, so I was rather irked to find that my special dipper had been made in the farthest reaches of Canada, rebottled in Essex and presumably cut by 90% with vinegar, it was ghastly and quite spoiled the momment, its only good for polishing something. So dear friends beware the Tebay Dippers. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Salted Seagulls

2010-04-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

One thing that bothers me about our long wonderful Winter is; what on earth would our forebears have made of it all before the "freezer" reached the Tower of Glen Trollaigh? As we nip into Farmfoods for a few frozen beans from Tansanika or asparagus from Peru we hardly consider what it must have been like to survive the winter with a couple of sheep's legs well smoked in the chimney or a barrel of salted seagulls to gnaw on when the going got tough. This was brought home to me when we recently ran out of stored field potatoes from last year. As we are not due to plant until after April's New Moon, yours truly had to elbow in passed some bumbling pensioners to the Tesco potato section. I absolutely abhor Tesco at the best of times, I simply cannot think of a single thing that redeems them apart from their offering a wide ranging number of Oban school leavers legal bullying for a penny or two above the minimum wage. I positively weep when I see visitors and locals alike with their trolleys groaning, proudly labelled for Islay, Mull or Colonsay presumably saving a centime or two over supporting the Port Askaig Co-op, to say nothing of the Oban Tesco "catch of the day" being Barramundi flown in from Darwin. We must be complete gullible twits to be taken in by this rubbish, particularly here in Argyll which has quite rightly become a centre for first class fish shops and farm shops to say nothing of excellent restaurants, which let me assure you from comments made by our international guests are at the very least world class. I urge all sensible souls to spend that extra tenner a week supporting local produce available in your local store and tell Mr Cohen what we think of him, unfortunately many of us are just too bloody lazy or at worse stupid.

I spotted another piece of irresponsible marketing during a rare visit to a Glasgow B&Q where £19.99 tents were displayed next to £40 chainsaws. We have quite enough trouble with campers chopping down our trees thank you very much, without any overt encouragement. It is worth noting that whilst honest country folk are required to have a chainsaw operating safety certificate and dress up like Darth Vader before pulling the starter cord, your average camping lumberjack is probably completely blotto and certainly semi naked. Doubtless the first "class action" law suite for missing limbs will bring a return of the time honoured security of camping equipment juxtaposed with matches, paraffin and barbecues in a idiot's hyper-market near you.

Since I last scribbled, April the First has come and gone. I find this day difficult as I always have a great desire to pull off the most fantastic wheeze such as closing British air space on some loony pretext and the knowledge that I am also fairly easily duped. However this year's offerings were easy to spot even for me, although the poor Japanese seem to have been universally used as decoys. I received an earnest message from a Mr Motokami searching for any info about the local roots of General MacArthur, claims were made of a photo of the General and his family wearing kilts on Loch Awe side; I know for a fact that the only contact between the General (a single man famously married to the military in more ways than one) and water was his powerful breast stroke in any available direction away from the Philippines before his coca cola supply was interrupted by relatives of Mr Motokami during WW2. Then a message from a Prof Kamimoto, complete with a slightly unnerving photo of the author warning me of a most painful death if I drank water from a plastic bottle stored in my car. The give away was that the good professor had obviously no realistic idea of the chances of water being carried in the Baronial Bodile. Hopefully the news that the Liberal Democrats, those complete wankers, may in some way hold the balance of power in our forth coming election is also an April Fool! Hey ho, Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

What's in a Post Code

2010-03-13T08:29:00.000-08:00

Woodpeckers drum in the Scots Pines, A pair of Ravens circle against the blue sky and snowy peaks searching for a nest site handy for a dead sheep carry-out. At last our Glen Trollaigh year is turning, Any day now the first March new moon will be with us and planting can start with the waxing moon; so seed packets are being shaken and sniffed, seed potatoes are chitting away on any spare cool shelf space, all this many weeks behind our southern cousins. Much of the new planting will take place (mice permitting) in the Great Poly Tunnel of Trollaigh along side a selection of grape vines, as serious research starts on Argyll's first vineyard. While you city dwellers starve under whichever political twat makes a monkey of our economy after the May election; and as you suffer dehydrated hallucinations you can imagine yours truly tucking into a fresh Salmon Salad washed down by a chilled glass of "The Baron's Choice" Sauvignon Blanc beside the Great Hot Tub of Trollaigh heated with surplus energy from our private hydro scheme; ahh life in the country. Speaking of the countryside and our constant battle with politically correct tree-huggers, our harsh though glorious winter has at long last brought Deer into the same eco spotlight as Seals. Strange bedfellows you might think, however mortality amongst last year's Deer calves has been high, with every country road culvert blocked by a corps or two and of course those dicks at the Forestry Commission (with apologises to all you Dicks) have chosen this moment to machine gun marauding Stags with the enthusiasm of a genocidal African dictator. So now the misplaced sentiment showered on Seals, those cuddly sea rats, has swung towards Deer. No bad thing I hear you cry however you probably grasp the fact the Deer are wonderful native grazers improving Scotland's superb natural heritage; whilst Seal foul our seawater and eat millions of tons fish that would otherwise be on our tables. The choice for once is yours, millions of Seals defecating in our pristine, unspoilt waters, a practice from which Homo Sapiens is banned, or fish suppers for your lovely children? I made my mind up years ago!

Although snow has fallen without fail every Wednesday, no rain has fallen on the North Argyll Glens since early December and a steady supply of cold Arctic air has given us an Alpine winter to remember, now we have the blessing of lengthening days with sunlight stirring the moths in the library carpet before 9.00 hrs and even now at 18.30 hrs there is enough light to walk the dogs around the policies without tripping on too may obstacles. However our outside taps remain frozen and although the deepest snow is creeping back up the braes, thick ice may still coat the burns; the late night release of the Trollaigh Matted Mutts often takes place in sub zero temperatures. Perhaps our wonderful winter encouraged our Olympic Gold for sledging, although lots of other countries seem to have been practicing a tad harder than us at curling where once we reigned supreme. Dearest Dottie and I have certainly made use of many "Half Day Senior" tickets at Glen Coe and skied in outstanding conditions for an hour or two before retiring to the pub to rest the knees on the way back to base. Its almost enough to tempt me to replace my delaminated ski boots with a new pair; however I have the uneasy feeling that as soon as I splash out a couple of hundred smackers for new ones, the snow will melt and not return for several seasons.

Some of you may have missed the grand finale of Morven's effort to secure its own post code, rather than share one with Oban. I think it has taken 10 years for a dedicated bunch of white settlers to convince the authorities of the need for this totally unnecessary change. Now the foolish Post Office have given in and are about to spend millions of our wonga on creating a new PA80 code for the Morven silver backs. Hurrah I hear you shout, but not so as the pimlico pensioners have said this it is simply not good enough, they want a more socially acceptable Perthshire post code or nothing. What staggers me is the fact that surely these lunatics realised what their post code was before they cashed in their zillion pound semi in London and swapped for a £20k croft in the middle of nowhere sans street lights and phone boxes. Yes, struggle against injustice, but you cannot just change things that have served the local yokels well just because your social chache with your London chums is under pressure, silly Bs. Your aye, Archie the Baron Trollaigh.

FTP or not to P

2010-02-09T12:08:00.001-08:00

I shall have to be brief as Google is about to cut off, at any minute, users of FTP of which I am apparently one. To those of you, like me, with Ulster Ancestors FTP has a fairly simple meaning; to google on the other hand, it is some independent, obsolete system which they no longer wish to support; and with arrogance would rather replace it with something profit generating and presumably of their own invention. Alas having got the hang of this thing I will need to start again. All this is A1 OK for those silver surfers with the time to play around with the Internet, however to those of us who have lost everything as Beat Up Britain spirals towards third world status and who have to wear our fingers to the bone trying to feed our families without, I may add any help from our corrupt government, concerned as they are only with Casino Banking and hiding behind 1675 laws, it is a nightmare; what happened to ALGOL?

Glen Trollaigh has seen the most fabulous Alpine winter weather ever since mid December, we have had at least five continuous weeks with crisp snow around The Tower of Glen Trollaigh and although the extreme temperatures of the turn of the year seem to be behind us we are still regularly at minus 6 degrees from 5.00pm until the following noon. Of course the ridges and high tops look sublime with deep snow against a sparkling sky, this is attracting loads of climbers and skiers. The only down side is that every B road is jammed with parked cars leading to a lot of pushing and shoving as locals try to get to and from work. This has produced a healthy new enterprise amongst our young folk who now deal in "one owner" wing mirrors of every model and colour in the pub car park.

Most of you will not realise that livestock thrive in these dry conditions particularly as our ration of daylight increases to 10 hours a day; it is the long wet winters that thrill the saints of climate change which do for sheep and cattle. The Glen Trollaigh flocks and herds are looking particularly fit and I am sending regular e photos of my beauties to my bankers, reassuring them that good times are coming in the Spring when the hoi polloi realize that eating Mr T**co's substandard infected South American burgers is a bad idea. I must admit that the cold has brought a few problems apart from the inappropriately clad bums of school children turning blue. My plumbing and joinery skills have been sorely tried fixing pipes and boxing them back in, indeed the whole bally supply froze on the 4th of January for three weeks taking us back to the good old days of collecting water from the well every morning in buckets and heating water on the kitchen range for the shared bath. The only solution was to lay 40 metres of new water pipe at a depth of a metre in frozen unforgiving soil and rocks, this took dearest Dottie quite a few days with pick and shovel. Indeed it gave rise to a new catch phrase as every request to the hooded and muffled navie brought the reply; "I can't hear you, I'm in the damned ditch".
As a mutual exchange of Christmas gifts, dearest Dottie and I summoned the TV man, who with hundred's of metres of co-axial cable, something called a quad LNB and many expensive hours of roof top swinging labour he has thrust the Tower of Glen Trollaigh into a new age of telly watching. Now yours truly can be chewing the mustachios in front of the 50 inch plasma, whilst a totally different programme is being recorded onto the Humax hard drive, and incredibly dearest Dottie can be nursing her blisters propped up in the Great Bed of Trollaigh watching a third, yet not a single Sky subscription to be seen. Now if I can only figure out how to work the Humax remote, we will be laughing. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Once in a Blue Moon.

2010-01-02T09:02:00.000-08:00

Its not often that old cynics can talk of Blue Moons with any degree of sincerity, however this Hogmanay produced the thirteenth 2009 full moon with bells on. Glen Trollaigh was thick with snow topped with a carpet of sparkling frost crystals in our fourth week of continuous sub-zero temperatures, indeed we bottomed out at -16C on at least two occasions during the last weeks of 2009. There we were jigging merrily with our moonshadows cast across the Great Lawn of Trollaigh, a scene akin to the very best of Dr Zhivago, braziers blazing and the monster Great Bonfire of Trollaigh alight. The midnight sky a pale azure as an enormous Blue Moon lit the scene to almost daylight levels of brightness from 4pm until 9.00am on the first day of 2010. In this day and age reasonable bubbles replace expensive drams in deference to the ladies, however we have added a Trollaigh twist by using the empties as hand hurled targets for some innocent blamming when the night is clear. I leave Lachie to do the hand hurling and retreat safely behind the guns as I have a fairly good idea of the sobriety or otherwise of most of our guests. Indeed in the past someone narrowly avoided blowing his boots off whilst checking the efficacy of the selective trigger of an old B25. I have to admit that Hogmanay is one of the few gatherings that I relish and can keep up a good humour throughout the event, something about the sheer paganism of the whole thing appeals, not a bally cleric is sight, just good company, drink and dance. Although this is a little disingenuous as the 5th of January is the true "old" Scots New Year with its sincere hope for good fortune as our northern hemisphere tilts back from the darkest days.

You will not be surprised to learn that despite my good humour I have stamped a degree of grumpiness on our extended household over the festive season, and that involves a ban on "Non Iron" clothes. In these liberal times one can excuse a few nether garments that have not seen the starch bottle; however to follow the hoi polloi in the Malls and supermarkets where not one ironed shirt collar is to be seen is not acceptable. Frankly I do not want to meet my accountant or lawyer in a synthetic zip fronted polo or whatever. Items that are barely acceptable even in a gym or on a yacht will never darken the door of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh after 6.00pm. One can allow a little latitude when forced into the great outdoors in this weather, I personally still prefer wool, tweed and leather although I am not too dim to see some merit in all the hi-tech layers that protect the young, which lets face it would look pretty daft below the grizzled whiskers of some old codger from the North Argyll Glens.

One can never have enough torches and I am very pleased to report that Santa, although basically a "foodie" these days, still pops a nice solid torch into the stocking hanging from the end of The Great Bed of Trollaigh. The boot room is a tangle of chargers supporting a fairly useless rank of rechargeable 1,000,000 candle power torches collected from filling stations throughout the length and breadth of the Europe, but basically you can't beat a rubberised Coleman or a sleek U.S. Mag-lite with a couple of hefty Ds up its jacksy. Many thanks again Santa, and and sycophants take note.

Apart from the constant battle to keep domestic water flowing and pipes defrosted, we have so far survived our extended and early cold snap with only a couple of bursts. I do not bother with the conventional measurements of temperature but rely on two locally available indicators. The first is the throbbing of my missing toe, lost while making a rapid night exit from a Girton College window, the painful missing digit starts to trouble me at around -8C and worsens as the mercury free falls. The second is the icing over of the River Trollaigh which brings "the visitor". This is the appearance of a wild mountain ram who safely crosses the 6 inch thick ice bridge to make free with our winsome pedigree ewes. You may wonder why this blighter is not swiftly dispatched by a well aimed 303, for it is the unwritten law of the glens that one must make every effort to return a wandering beast to it rightful owner, however this particular old roughie rascal is quite definitely living on borrowed time.

Hey Ho, we seem to be stuck in winter's icy grip and I can't say that I am too against it. The old Land Rover is the only form of transport as any road under the "care" of Argyll and Bute Council is a bally disgrace and although the Postie battles through any obstacle all other "services" such as re-cycling and wheelie bin emptying have sunk without trace. Whilst politely pointing out this shameful situation to an A&B Council wallah he was kind enough to mention that he would not be doing much about it as he was on holiday until the 21st January! When, oh when, will people realise that the country teeters on the edge of bankruptcy and international scorn; sound bites from greedy politicos will not save us, we must get our combined fingers out, stop believing that Eastenders reflects even a scintilla of the truth and get on with a bloody, hard, honest day's work. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Bye the bye, a very Good New Year to one and all. Donations to the North Wall re-pointing will be gratefully received. The usual Grosse Trollaigh Bank in Montreux will handle all the details of your donation with the utmost discretion.

The Hooligan's Jig.

2009-12-04T09:32:00.000-08:00

Well here we are in December and as it seems that over the last few entries I have only managed to jot down my thoughts once a month, I am now going to make this my standard effort with a scribble reasonably soon after the 1st. Of course those of you who know me will realise I am seldom that organised so almost anything may happen. The first problem with increasing the gaps between publications is that I forgot my password to access the Glen Orchy Kerr's website, requiring a forced march with the mutts across the Long Glen on a fine, frosty day to note the required rune on the back of a box of Cigarillos. Somewhat more time consuming than a phone call however so much better for one, especially as I have just received the annual ear bashing from the local Doc who appears determined to regularly lower the bar on every measurement of one's health from blood pressure to weekly alcohol units, seemingly hell bent on turning one's dotage into a turgid bore.

Speaking of such things I lost three full days to jury service in Oban Sheriff Court, the quicker witted amongst you may wonder why such a sensible spot would drag in the elderly for any reason other than to shelter them in the public gallery from Oban's ghastly climate. Apparently the local jury pool situation has become impossible with half of the 12,000 Argyll voters being exempt from service by dint of profession (briefs, priests, quacks etc.) whilst the other half are ineligible because of criminality or insanity. So there was nothing for it but to waive the rules and round up a pile of pensioners. By golly the courts work slowly, starting at about 10.00, coffee for half an hour at 11.30, an hour's lunch at 1.00 and then a positively herculean effort between 2.00 and 4.00 before knocking off for the day. Much of this time we spent dosing in the jury room whilst the learned chaps in wigs battled over some ancient and tedious point of law, in this case called the Moorhen Manoeuvre or some such. However despite the court officer coming to tick us off for being hearty and making too much noise while the sheriff digested his din-dins we managed to return a verdict. Whilst thanking us all for our efforts at the end of the trial the beak faltered during his well rehearsed homily "and you will be excused jury service for five years" as he glanced along the rows of bald heads and blue rinses, even his lordship twigged that he will not be seeing any of us again, well not outside of the dock anyway. The only disappointment apart from the quality of the lunches, was that my expenses claim was returned with a pittance for a settlement and a terse note asking why I had not used public transport. Well its like this my Lord, do you want me to arrive at 3.00pm and depart at 3.45pm to cope with the rural Argyll timetables? A short day by any standards.

Another day was lost when I was trapped in a cupboard, accidentally I should add. I was routeling around for something or another when suddenly the door slammed shut, incarcerating yours truly and a flatulent mutt in the dusty dungeon. By good fortune there were plenty of Tower of Glen Trollaigh drafts for air supply and the light switch not only worked but was on the inside of the cupboard. After much fruitless banging and loud hallooing I was forced to settle on an upturned box and peruse old copies of The Field magazine. Further examination of my prison unearthed all the usual newspaper wrapped rubbish plus an interesting though inaccurate family tree; and saints be praised a more or less full bottle of Teacher's presumably stashed by some long forgotten party goer. Sad to say I was not missed by the household and it was only tobacco smoke curling under the bottom of the cupboard door that alerted Mhairi to my plight and Lachlan was summoned to release me. "God,what's that smell" was dearest Dottie's sympathetic greeting from behind The Daily Telegraph, I was only able to point accusingly at Haggis our verdigrised elderly Lab, whilst travelling at speed towards the lav having missed two of my scheduled pee stops.

One other spree enjoyed at this time of year is the Friday night dancing class in a loch side village hall, this is strictly Ceilidh and definitely not approved of by the douce members of the Strathspey and Reel Society. Lots of laughter and organised by a pretty suave dancer who is also a joiner; so I rather cruelly refer to the class as "Dances With Builders", however apart from knocking the rust off in time for the seasonal hops, there are sufficient drams to make the noise of one's whiskers scratching on the sheets painful the following morning. So, my dears, when I ask for the pleasure of the next dance this season you know that I am a finely tuned dancing machine, although I advise toe protection at all times! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Wonderful Wedding

2009-11-11T07:16:00.000-08:00

Who can tell me the year of the last Typhoid epidemic in Aberdeen? I cannot recall exactly but it must have been fifty odd years ago that we young chaps were warned by our employers and church elders not to go near the Granite City in the hope of saving the rest of the nation from a horrible, painful end, to say nothing of ruining the surging post war economy depending as it did on a healthy though underpaid workforce. Needless to say we completely ignored the exhortations of the medicos and visited Aberdeen even more frequently for boisterous weekends of beer and rugby, although by then I was at the end of my career in both departments. I do not remember that any chums contracted unexpected deceases in Aberdeen however my easy going attitude to pestilence of fifty years ago does not extent to November, 2009. Now mothers in the Highlands and Islands are positively boasting about their snotty nosed offspring's particularly virulent viruses. They spread unimpeded throughout hundreds of thousands of the Hoi Poloi without a thought given to us Wealthy Well or whatever we are known as, mainly it seems because there is some dispute about what the GPs must be paid to administer a winter vaccine. Certainly many of the folk living in the harsh North Argyll Glens seem to have been struck down by almost every known curse, although I have to say that it seems to manifest itself in Glen Trollaigh as a great reluctance to surface much before mid morning and a dislike of cold, wet weather.

Dearest Dottie and I have been extraordinarily busy throughout the mixed October weather with several tasks ticked off the maintenance lists; Gutters have been replaced and serviced, leaking chimneys capped, patios and bridges washed down, burrams mounded up, water pipes buried, shrubs moved, winter fuel topped up, dung collected to compost piles, showers upgraded, gates widened and winter shutters put up. Although zillions more tasks remain it has been good to get on a bit and the pressure is off knowing that we do not take Autumn game shooting guests, so we only have to entertain rellies until New Year when we then charge a bob or two for an authentic Highland Hogmanay. We even managed to slip away to Edinburgh for a rather fab wedding and I have to admit that every time I visit, the whole appeal of Edinburgh and the East becomes greater. Could it be that I will be the first Trollaigh to forsake the Great Tower of Trollaigh for the East Coast in my old age? Any of my readers with outstanding apartments for sale, do please get in touch.

Another feature of October has been the substantial increase in air traffic using Glen Trollaigh. We have frequent fly passes from forestry and rescue helicopters and we are well used to the occasional Sunday microlight and even the seaplane slightly off course between Oban and Loch Lomond or the Clyde. However military low level jets are definitely on the increase with smokey Brits white knuckling it round the contours, perfectly correct Germans zooming by, now that the nod has been given to their re-militarization by NATO and of course the lovely ruggedness of the Yanks, who fly well below the height limit in jet black screamers, and whose pilots chomp on cigars, they are the only ones to give a tweed clad native a friendly wave, with one eye on the landscape rather than both on complicated avionics.God bless them all, Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh

On The Level

2009-10-11T02:04:00.000-07:00

In an effort to introduce an element of economy into our Great Garden Plans I decided to build the timber posts and doors that will secure the ends of what will shortly be christened The Great Poly-Tunnel of Trollaigh. Armed with sizable timbers, a cement mixer and the stuff that goes into it, I set about the door posts which were completed with suspiciously little trouble. Next into the workshop with strong, long lumber to create the sturdy door frames ready for the hi-tech poly, great efforts were made with jointing and setting the monsters square and fitted with the pair and half of hinges as we craftsmen call them, while I dreamed of the day when a small army of guest workers will swarm through my magnificent portals to dig, plant and sow all my 2010 veggie needs. Having hauled the doors on site imagine my dismay upon discovering that the blighters did not fit. After kicking some trees, abusing the hired help and with a lot of bolting, unbolting, planing, hammering and sawing my doors now fit, but hang in the usual cack-handed way that sets my woodworking skills apart from even the most lowly tradesman. To pour salt on the wound I surprise dearest Dottie sighing over a bright picture of glamorous, gliding, sliding aluminium doors in the poly-tunnel catalogue. It was not long before I uncovered the cause of my carpentry problems. While tackling some other minor measuring requirement I found to my horror that depending on which way I offered up my trusty spirit level, two quite different versions of vertically were displayed, so although my doors were things of beauty, my concrete embedded door posts are as bent as a dog's hind leg.

Talking of things being on the level, I always try to attend our local Community Council meetings as they provide me with the local gossip which otherwise flows straight passed the Great Gates of Glen Trollaigh. The most recent event provided humour of Hulotesque proportions on the subject of the Lochawe Village Bus Shelters. Hitrans is an organisation for funneling euro cash into highland transport schemes and had commissioned and paid for a rash of splendid new bus shelters throughout our patch. For some unknown reason two shelters destined for Lochawe never appeared, and as local children are forced to stand in a leaky converted hen coup while waiting for the school bus, questions were being asked. To cut an exceedingly long politically complex story short, contractor X who had been paid to do the job pulled out leaving the children in the hen coup. Contractor Z has agreed, for extra dosh, to erect the two shelters, however the bits are scattered between three different Argyll and Bute Council depots and a carrier must be found to gather up the pieces and carry them to contractor Z somewhere in the Scottish Central Belt. The partly assembled structures must then return to Lochgilphead by carrier for the glass bits to be fitted, further sub-contractors engaged to measure up and pour foundations and bases before finally contractor Z will appear in a flotilla of white vans to bolt the bally things together. One cannot help thinking that as this has all taken several years and many wet children perhaps the A&B Council who have a fleet of bright yellow trucks, and who employ many tradesmen of all shapes and sizes might remove the digit, quickly finish the job and cover the blushes of Hitrans who have already splashed the cash on the contract, particularly as the Hitrans chairman is an A&B Councillor. I had even considered pricing the job myself, however one look at the poly-tunnel doors and one old fashioned glance from dearest Dottie has seen sense prevail.

Now is the time to turn the wheelie bins "head to wind", avoid treading wet leaves into the Tower of Glen Trollaigh, endure much talk on the condition of Tups (not too good in our case, looks like gender problems), watch the snowline edge down from the tops, listen to the Stags roar and put the .308 away till next August. Southern softies start their game shooting season whilst we fret over the size of our log piles and curse all the things we have not done before the long chilly nights are upon us. However as each morning brings frost and fabulous river mists with distant sunlight on the ridges, and we can look forward to our traditional social winter evenings of chat and dance, safe in the knowledge that whatever the powers that be do to screw it up, some sort Spring will come in six or seven months. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Those Colonsay Nights.

2009-09-23T06:11:00.000-07:00

Many paths have been walked since last we met and to be honest that's my fault as I have had every good intention of scribbling this about three weeks ago, however the "path to hell" etc. We skipped Burghley Horse Trials this year for the first time in simply ages after last year's muddy madness and believe it or not almost every cove I have seen since has cried " didn't see you at Burghley old boy." whilst the holders of the Burghley booze franchise sent dearest Dottie a condolence card assuming that I must have fallen off my perch much to the detriment of their profits. Another bar related problem has been my upgrade to Microsoft Vista which has far too many "apps" for yours truly and the Favourites Bar option caused no end of a problem when it failed to acknowledge "Harry's Monaco" although I have since been corrected, in-so-far as Vista is apparently referring to something completely different. We did make it to The Dalmally Show, which was if anything more wet,wild and muddy than any show I can remember, none the less everyone turned out which is a wonderful support to the society, the only obvious difference from a fair weather show being that although the farming fraternity seem still to be in t-shirts and overalls, all the visitors were sensibly dressed for a solo crossing of the Arctic. Perhaps conditions could be recorded by the level to which the beer tent customers sank in the mud relative to the bar staff who were god like, several feet above them on the original ground level duck boards. I very much enjoyed the bull competition class, tempting me to dream of a few gentle Highlanders grazing in Glen Trollaigh before the prices go any higher. Which reminds me that looking at this year's entries I must have a tilt at one or two of the easier veggie classes next year, I feel that the "three long parsnips" were possibly beyond me, however I must be in with a chance with a "row of fat peas", watch this space.

As sunrise moves to the dark side of 0800 hours BST, thoughts turn to the frustration of all the things we have not managed to finish this year having lost six or seven weeks to poor weather, but let's not be too dismissive of our single handed achievements. The hay may be only good for mulching, the log pile low and our fruit crop a disaster, however we have a good crop of potatoes, our poly-tunnel is 90% complete for next year's veggies and the entrance to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh now boasts a bell mouth wide enough to admit the lorries needed for next year's rebuilding of the hydro scheme which will hopefully reap rich rewards under "FITS" on which I will make no comment for fear of upsetting the hand that feeds us.

We made it to Ceol Cholasa again although time was tight and the mutts surprised to be wrenched from hill stalking to languishing in the comfort of the back seats of the Land Rover. I must say it was very good with Phil Cunningham and Ali Bain, to say nothing of Karen Matheson, Donald Shaw and many others. Even fringe events of Whisky Tasting and Poetry seem to be developing, although one struggles with the over-all melancholy of gaelic poetry, the authors always encountering some immovable obstruction between their ambitions and the enviable life of crofting and dropping dead on the outer isles. The male version takes to drink in the city and having lost his pocket money cannot afford to return home; the female version having unwisely lost what she has to offer instead of pocket money, also cannot return home for the shame of it all. As usual the Isle of Colonsay supplied the most fabulous back drop and only the capacity of the island hall contained the exuberance of the festival. Dearest Dottie and I took the opportunity and tramped over parts of Colonsay, some familiar and some not visited for many a year, the weather was kind and we normally managed to slip under the duvet before 0400 hours BST by hurrying one lot of wardancing visitors away and flicking the lights out before the hard core professional party goers arrived en route to a 0600 swim in the freezing Kiloran surf. All in all a super weekend with exceptional company and good humour all round, over far too quickly. Here's to next year, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

The Word According To Maggie.

2009-09-02T01:36:00.000-07:00

I am not sorry to see the back of August, a ghastly month of more or less constant rain which dampened the spirits of everyone from frustrated farmers to tourists. Even fishermen, normally a stoical bunch, are muttering about river levels being too high, mind you this makes a pleasant change from levels being too low, or too much sunshine or whatever excuse the fly fisher uses for lack of success. The joint parishes which cover the North Argyll glens have a quaint tradition stretching back into history, of all joining together for one church parade when there is a fifth Sunday in the month, and so it was to St Conan's in Lochawe for August's bash. I always rather enjoy these affairs which are slightly less formal than our geriatric gatherings in the far north of the parish. St Conan's, although I find the kirk itself akin to a frozen film set, did not disappoint with solo singing, lots of children banging away on assorted percussion instruments and youngsters accompanying our best efforts at lusty singing, on well played bagpipes, even a shaft of sunlight bursting through the stained glass during the sermon. The only fly in the ointment was the padre's insistence that we all "learn a new hymn", I can find nothing wrong with the old ones that we learnt when knee high to a grasshopper and my heart sinks when a new hymn is announced from the pulpit. However the high point of these services is a splendid spread of sandwiches, cakes and tea that is always put on after the service, although the habit of one of our ministers, sadly now retired, of leaving a few discreetly placed beakers of vino behind the columns for a surreptitious swallow has gone, one imagines, forever. I dare say the re-introduction of such bad habits would increase the numbers of the faithful attending and make the "new hymns" a little more bearable.

As the poor weather keeps me indoors I find myself wasting a lot of time battling bureaucracy whilst trying to organise the simplest schemes of tree planting or ditch digging and if anyone fancies experiencing a real stone wall approach orchestrated by a fully trained black belt expert, just try persuading Transerv to clear away overgrown scrub obscuring the sight-lines on a notorious Argyll junction. Year on year I simply seem to fail to notice the spread of a multi layered, hugely expensive civil service, every department with its opposing policies to pursue and empires to build. Speaking of public money, I note that one Argyll GP has now attached a registration to his (or indeed her) Porche which reads NHS 200, Dalmally Golf Club bar scuttle butt concludes that the poor number plate cannot accommodate the additional three zeros that would reflect the GP's true annual salary. Those communities who are currently seeking to recruit a new GP and are being lulled by the sweet seduction of "community consultation" beware, one who knows can assure you that the powers that be have long ago decided which individual will receive the generous budget allocated to your surgery, and of course the additional bonus payments for reducing your blood pressure when you discover that you have been shafted. All this largesse with the country's overdraft reminds me of one of Maggie Thatcher's bon mot "The trouble with those who pursue socialism is that they eventually run out of other people's money", you can say that again my dear. The forecasters, after stirring the smoking entrails of some fallen beast, seem to think that our deluge will stop for a while next week, here's hoping. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh,

What's in a name?

2009-08-14T10:40:00.000-07:00

At last a week at home at the Tower of Glen Trollaigh or almost as a day's sailing seemed to get in the way of work. Mixed weather has interfered or delayed most outdoor projects with the lawns looking particularly unkempt and soggy. However work progresses on the Trollaigh navy, which now only suffers a few expensive glitches in the electronics suite mainly caused by yours truly jig-sawing through several wiring looms in the wheel house. Visitors include the unscheduled arrival of an Austrian Jaguar Owners rally who were many miles off course in a down pour, despite a little language difficulty and demands to be shown to their rooms, we over came the reek of damp soft tops, leather jackets and flying helmets to fill the drivers with hot soup and their partners with brandy whilst navigational errors were rectified. After much hand shaking, promises to meet again (I should coco) and the presentation of a pennant with a remarkable similarity to the sort of thing that fluttered from A.H.'s staff car during WWII, the Jags spend off to Inverlochy Castle their intended destination.

As rain showers streak The Great Windows of Trollaigh I have retreated to the library to avoid dearest Dottie while she is, unbelievably surfing the world wide web in an effort to plan a visit to Germany, only hours after we have sworn on the Great Bible not to travel away from Glen Trollaigh before Christmas. I am afraid that I must admit a total lack of understanding of the female mind even after all these years. Needless to say the only way of reaching our target is to rise at 3am, drive to Edinburgh Airport and stand in a long check-in queue for a 6.20am flight to somewhere hundreds of miles from where one wants to be; this honour is only available to you on a Wednesday.That nice hotel recommended to us is also fully booked around the time of our visit. The stand-by plan is to take Otto by ferry, surprisingly when one adds up all the extras of air travel, hotel nights, hire cars etc the cost is fairly similar, with the potential bonus of straining Otto's self levelling suspension with good quantities of provisions and Christmas presents on the way home. The only down side is that I have been warned by chums that hundreds of kilometres of the above mentioned A.H.'s aging autobahn system is being ripped up making driving across northern Germany a very frustrating affair.

My good deed whilst being confined to quarters by dollops of rain has been to help rescue young Bertie Bellingham-Ogilvie from the depths of the Scottish Prison Service. Like the modern day Trollaighs young Bertie is now an accommodation provider for those wishing to enjoy the unspoilt North Argyll glens in the comfort of a crumbling castle, however unlike the modern facilities we offer the Bellingham's guests rely on a septic waste system installed by General Wade. In an effort to keep the creaking system functioning young Bertie has become paranoid about what reaches the tanks, particularly anti-biotic medicines which have slipped past his security scrutiny. Alas for poor Bertie two forceful Scandinavian females visiting as part of The Year of Homecoming caught young Bertie apparently rifling through their smalls, an innocent and easily explained mistake as he was only searching for prescription drugs that could shut down his delicate sewage system. To cut a long story short Bertie was refused bail by the Oban beak whose daughter bertie had somehow offended at last year's Argyll Gathering and ended up in Perth clink a forgotten man. Weeks past, during which the youngster should have been sprung as an EU citizen; eventually after much lobbying by the great and the good of Argyll Bertie has been freed. The official reason for his extended incarceration? His file was mixed up with someone with a similar name! Hey ho, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

The Day After Tomorrow Delivery.

2009-08-07T07:14:00.000-07:00

The beginning of August seems to be the watershed of the Scottish Summer, behind us now the long bright, hot days of Glasgow Fair hoi polloi and ahead the shorter days with Atlantic jetstreams firing plenty of low pressure systems at Argyll normally aimed at Spitzbergen. This is not to say we will not still revel in some fabulous days, however for every one of them we will now have to endure two wet and wild ones, as the evenings grow darker and darker. Although this is not too happy a prospect for our euro visitors seeking sun and lofty highland landscapes, it is of cousre pure El Dorado for we poor land sports providers struggling to find fishing and blamming for PGs, for wet weather brings Stags down the hillsides and Salomon up the rivers, so every cloud etc.

I hope you will forgive the long gaps between scribbles however we seem to be constantly on the move, no sooner has Mhairi cooked up a storm with "The Full Scottish" breakfast for our ad hoc guests and yours truly has shaken the previous evenings Ardbeg fumes from the Baronial bonce than we must make our excuses and hare off to visit almost everyone one could possibly think of. Recently we have stayed with one of Scotland's Celeb Chefs to be wined and dined around the Pittenweem Arts Festival although his finely tuned sense of humour fairly wound up old duffers like us, just wait for another ten years my boy and it will be your turn to suffer. We also enjoyed a wonderful visit to Colonsay, one of my favourite destinations. Despite its unbelievable mix of land and seascape I could never live in such an isolated community bedevilled with its demographic problems, however what a wonderful spot to visit. This time the Trollaigh Navy stayed in port and we sensibly caught the ferry for four days of non stop socialising, even the mutts were bemused by late nights, howling force eight gales, driving rain, then suddenly Mediterranean beach barbecues with lots of other hounds to chase and romp with. In days past the laird owned everything and with varying degrees of philanthropy looked after his flock, gradually this has changed so that many of the aforementioned flock own their own patch and view with great jealousy the progress of those who sit on their rights in public housing or dare to build, purchase and enjoy their holiday or retirement homes. One wag who should know better than to side against the blow-ins even penned a ditty lampooning the ability of some to "carpet the byre" referring to the change from a cow pat stiffened agricultural work place, to a space for reading and relaxation, one might argue that this is a significant step forward for conservation and civilisation, perhaps the lyricist would do well to look to his own family byre, bereft of an honest beast for many a year.

Hopefully after a furious blast to Aviemore for a wedding tomorrow things will settle a little and the old maintenance list can come back out of the drawer to facilitate the million chores that remain undone chez Trollaigh. A new definition appeared this week for "next day deliver". After many frustrating phone calls to track down an urgently required spare part dispatched from the home counties, a local carrier finally contacted me to say that the long awaited box would not be delivered by the next day as you or I might infer from the description on the package, but rather on the next day he happened to be passing which will be sometime next week; I suppose there is some logic in there somewhere. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Mosswood City Limits

2009-07-12T06:49:00.001-07:00

Back in the dim dark days of the winter of discontent and "sunny" Jim Callaghan, when the government could never make a decision; it became standard practice to allow any old minority interest group to form a QUANGO directed by a board of nutty professors, inept surgeons and broken bankers, whose task it was to explore the burning issues of the day such as wildflowers or VD. At every parliamentary session we are promised a "bonfire of QUANGOs" although all that seems to happen is that their numbers grow, several hundred at the last count, I believe. The organisation that draws my fire this week is what used to be called MOSS, Ministry of Odd Shaped Stones. This was fairly typical of the genre, a board of nitwits slowly climbing the ladder of gongs and honours whilst doing nothing much apart from chewing through a modest £4million annual budget in dusty offices on the shaded side of Charlotte Square. In fact they were quite popular in Argyll, an odd director would attend the local kirk, a field party or two would put up at our pubs and spread some cash around, and of course it is not just anyone who can spot odd shaped stones, so these coves were treated with a degree of respect.

However, time and tide, old boy; so just when we thought that MOSS was going to fade away, a sparkie young colonial in a short skirt and a push-up bra was dispatched by Porche from Whitehall to sort the poor fools out. Before one could say odd shaped stones fifty time the nitwits were out, the office moved to Ashford, Kent with handy connections to the Bruxcelles express, the budget multiplied by twenty and the desks fairly crammed with thrusting bureaucrats. Of course there was the statutory re-branding and Locality Agency, Stones, Crystals And Rocks (LASCAR) was born. Although we miss the cash I am pleased to say that the new lot have mainly confined themselves to Northamptonshire and Oxford, presumably an easy away day from Kent on expenses, to say nothing of jamming the printing presses with policy and method statements plus glossy brochures of every hue.

The point is that some over-eager rambler spotted an odd shaped stone on the braes of Ben Trolliagh and the twit reported it to LASCAR. The SAS have nothing on LASCAR, with indecent haste helicopters whirled, sirens wailed and the A80's 2,3 and 5 were closed to ensure the safety of what seemed like hundreds of clip boards scouring the wild hills of North Argyll. Despite the assistance of local mountain rescue groups who know these hills like the freckles on their daughter's noses, and hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of equipment and manpower thrown into the search, the odd shaped stone was never identified. I could have told them that at the start as the Great Braes of Ben Trollaigh are composed of zillions of tons of scree, sometimes oddly shaped, however I must lack the necessary PhD as I was never consulted. The only chaps I saw smiling were the Transerve squaddies who made a packet manning the roadblocks 24 hours a day, which kept Argyll cut off at the height of the tourist season for three days whilst this nonsense played out. Unfortunately for the wage packets of all the other public servants, they had to abide by the European Working Time Directive (as whole heartedly supported by LASCAR) limiting their working week to 36 hours and forbidding work after dark or when it rains, on health and safety grounds.

One fellow I met who was not too happy was a large Frenchman of Depardue proportions and great Bonhomie who had had his salmon rod and thousand euro reel lifted from a riverbank by neds. As the law was at full stretch clearing helicopter landing sites of ambulance chasers and journalists whilst placating locals who thought they were at the wheel of the General Lee on the Argyll byways in efforts to get home, all the visitor received was tea, sympathy and some form filling chez Dunoon Constabulary, perhaps a visitor to Scotland we have lost for ever; but let's face it we still have many odd shaped stones so there is hope yet. Only remember never to pick one up unless you have read all the LASCAR advice, sprayed some dayglo paint on it and plotted it's GPS position to four decimal places. Yours Aye. Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Fly Past

2009-07-05T10:40:00.000-07:00

I seem to have put my foot in it as usual; for despite my best intentions I confusingly referred to both Bowling and Tennis clubs in my last scribble and may also unwittingly have shown a hint of insincerity in my apologies. I have edited my last twaddle to omit any offensive references which may effect the meaning of some passages, and I wish to make clear my support for The All England Lawn Tennis Club.

All this bad luck is proof, if proof were needed that one should never knock a Vicar off his or her bike, or indeed a Priest, Rabbi or Mullah for that matter. It was all a genuine mistake in the first place as no religious figure has cycled uninvited, the miles to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for may a year and so dearest Dottie was not expecting the dog collared body to somersault over Otto's bonnet while her attention was focused on inserting a Runrig CD in the silly little slot thingy in the dashboard, a simple error compounded by crunching the parish's rusty and trusty four speed Pashley Rural Special under Otto's fat rear tyres. Naturally assistance was quickly on the spot and the Rev was carried hot foot to the Tower of Glen Trollaigh for first aid and a substantial restorative. It goes without saying that God's Representative left in Tanya's Taxi clutching a cheque which more than covered the indignity of any loss or injury. The rev has of course made the most of our embarrassment by inviting us onto every bally committee in the county and suggesting every batty scheme that might require our support. Normally one would chew on the old mustachios until the dust settled, however last Sunday's sermon linking the first three steps of the AA pledge to God's Grace whilst engaging yours truly in a holy stare was a bit thick.

Meanwhile a summer heatwave moves the Vin Rouge into the fridge and Mhairi complains vigorously about the steamy conditions in the kitchen, suggesting for the first time ever that her beloved kitchen range be switched off for the duration. I escape to the Scottish Game Fair for a few essential sporting purchases, and sip a cool glass of bubbles at the Adam & Co hospitality marquee, where it is good to see the the tax payer's bank bale out wonga being put to good use. A friend says how wonderful it is to see so many dogs at a show, now unheard of in his PC corner of the Commonwealth, moments before he is whirled away in a melee of snapping, snarling mongrels whose owners shout loudly and dodge flailing leashes. So all in all life is pretty good. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Bearded Bowlers

2009-06-27T00:39:00.000-07:00

I was somewhat taken aback when idly flipping through the hundreds of hopeless channels available on the old 46 inch Plasma, to see some shots of a Scottish Bowling Federation championship. For years I have believed SBF members to be chaps with a proper sense of neatness and authority, blazered, flannelled and clean shaven. Imagine my surprise to see the men as Steve Irwin look-a-likes and the ladies in racy white summer frocks, worst of all beards were very much in evidence. What has happened to this pillar Scottish urban and village life, what next, coloured balls?

The old Governor used to claim that the summer started with Wimbledon and the silly season started with the release of rusticated Oxbridge undergraduates and the recess of The House of Lords, and he should have known as he was very familiar with the former! However it is true that Glen Trollaigh only seems enter the Bog Myrtle scented, Cleg slapping, dog days of summer well after the Solstice and the nights are fair drawing in. This year the poor chaps at the All England Lawn Tennis Club must be in a bit of a spin after spending zillions over several years to fit Centre Court with a tin top, to have seen nary a drop of rain. However the Old Man was a bit off the mark with the silly season which seems to start earlier and earlier with the passing of each year, mainly fueled by charity runs featuring men with underpants on their heads and girls with bras on the outside of their clothing, all very commendable but about on a par with people throwing themselves of large hills on mountain bikes, another manifestation of the silly season if ever there was one.

Talking of underpants, the boundless lunacy of "irresponsible campers," as we now must respectfully call the lads and ladettes who spoil the peace of Glen Trollaigh and recklessly leave piles of poo for the unwary land manager to stand on, now includes tearing off all one's clothes while shouting at the top of one's voice and trying to throw the empty 40 oncer further than your buddies. I am not sure what they wear to get home, or even if they have a home to go to, for the cast apparel is discarded at the campsite along with all the other rubbish. If it were brightly coloured scanties one might be a bit more sympathetic, however it has fallen to me to liberate three pairs of ghastly boxers and two pairs of jeans from the riverbank over the past days, while innocently searching for a fish. Still one can be secure in the knowledge that China will churn out millions of replacement garments in the time it takes yours truly to scribble this nonsense. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

PS. The blog police at GHQ have shopped me to the All England Lawn Tennis Club and I have been asked to withdraw all comments about the new Centre Court roof and point out that it has in fact been put to good use. All-be-it to force Andy Murray to play on till midnight in an attempt to exhaust him whilst sticking to the new rule book. I am very pleased to say that this conspiracy did not dent young Murray's splendid efforts and he has played to his seed level. One can almost hear the howls from the treasurer's office as he or indeed she signs off the largest prize winnings ever won by a Brit, to a Scotsman! A.T.

Cats don't poop

2009-06-15T10:06:00.000-07:00

Thunder and heavy showers sweep from the north giving a more chilly feel than the 18C suggests,at least the breeze halts the progress of those bally midgies that have been making outside work fairly miserable. Unfortunately outside work is high on the agenda with everything from window painting, grass cutting and large scale gardening high on the priority lists, leaving little time to pursue more important matters such as the globalisation of "Troll Treats" our new pet food empire. The original name of "Archie Trollaigh Treats" has been changed to mollify our French partners to whom AT&T means something totally different, some sort of continental disease I believe. However having a few frogs on the board does prove helpful on some occasions such as choosing new cars for senior executives. My gallic opposite number Francoise de Trollee, some very distant cousin, immediately started wittering on about "le scrappage" which I had thought was a rather strict affair to encourage the hoi polloi to trade in their rusty Cavaliers and Mondeos for battery pedal cars. However this is not the case in La Belle France. One ships a couple of untaxed old bangers sans the MOT certificate on the back of a lorry across La Manche, bribe a Prefect or two who will provide the required paperwork then trade them for €6000 each with their UK number plates torn off, against a nice new Merc, Onion Johnnie is naturally even more enthusiastic if it is a new Renault or Citroen and indeed their new cars are much less expensive on the far side of The Channel in the first place. One then ships one's new ride back to Blighty on the back the same said truck, all very dodgy, but I like it.

Dearest Dottie lets slip the news that the sprogs are in a bit of trouble, in fact they may have brought the odd bolt of lightning around the ancient ears. Both offspring have been aboard the European gravy train of the Reducing Unnecessary Grass Care Carbon Emissions Trials (RUGCCET) for some years and it appears that as well as their generous salaries in Bruxelles, the London allowance and the daily living allowance which is more than enough to eat one's self to death in good Belgian hostelries, the sillies have been claiming "second mower allowance" on four state of the art Toro triple gang mowers supposedly housed and used for research here at The Tower of Glen Trollaigh. Regrettably the minxes are well practiced in the forging of yours truly's signature, taught same by some beastly bearded art teacher at school. So it goes without saying that your friendly Baron is up to his neck in fraud and forged paperwork. We quake as we await the arrival of the Euro Fraud Squad who will find nothing more than a couple of elderly Honda strimmers and an Atco LawnMaster circa 1950 all held together with bailer twine, and not a research project in sight.

I am happy to report that as warmer weather spills into Glen Trollaigh, the threat of a euro fraud purge recedes as those delightful daughters did allow me one toe on the bottom rung of the gravy train when their RUGCCET lot produced a lengthy work on domestic animal defecation and its effect on grass cutting. Apparently the euro grass commissioner did not fancy the use of the word defecation and I was offered a substantial incentive, nicely tied in with Troll Treats, to come up with an alternative. It's pretty obvious really: POOP. Imagine my surprise when a terse note shot back from RUGCCET terminating my contract, as every sensible person apparently knows that cats don't poop. Hey Ho, yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Free Lunches.

2009-06-13T01:51:00.000-07:00

Back home at last in dear old Glen Trollaigh, and apart from missing the on set of swine flu not much seems to have changed. The Tower of Glen Trollaigh has been looking magnificent in the May sunshine, some three weeks without a drop of rain. The last few years have given us a bonus spring in April/May, this year it seems cooler, shorter and later. However the great garden designer's Azalea bank is looking absolutely fabulous and our proper English Bluebells carpet the ground under Pinus Sylvestris. Although the soil was not warm enough for potato planting and veggie sowing until the end of the first week in June, some three weeks later than 2008, even now we still have a risk of ground frosts in the North Argyll Glens.

Extra locks and security cameras have kept ad hoc guests out of the more important areas of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh such as the wine cellar and my library during our absence. However, Lachie and Mhairi have complained about a fairly steady stream of visitors banging on the Great Door of Trollaigh on some weak excuse or another and blagging a night or two's free board and free fishing. Well my friends you know who you are and expect a frostie reception when next you call, despite your pathetic use of false names in the visitors book, because most of you were caught on the CCTV sniffing around the cellar door.

Herbert "Useless" Trollaigh MEP was actually in residence on our return despite Mhairi's pointed suggestion that he should clear off. Herbert is one of the twenty odd UK MEPs who have chosen to retire at this month's European Elections before they get thrown out for signing into the Parliament every day to collect their £175 daily living allowance, then promptly buggering off to the yacht. The idiot spent all day on his i-phone negotiating a two year salary in advance severance package and then hysterical calls to his colleagues arguing how they could possibly split up the £10 million additional pension pot that they have managed to grovel for. Hell mend them say I. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Yellow Wellies

2009-05-29T23:42:00.000-07:00

Refreshed by a few days of Hedonism dearest Dottie and I settle up the bar bill and catch the free golf buggy ride from the Beach Club to Hamilton Island Marina for the last major blast of our visit to the southern hemisphere. Here we join our fifty foot charter yacht to spend a week cruising the Whitsundays. There is a bit of a tale about the boat as dearest Dottie is unwilling to let just the two of us loose on anything much bigger than thirty nine feet for safety reasons, however only the fifty footer was available. DD constantly gave the monster suspicious glances whilst I was forced to emulate that prat M Winner on telly, the one who endorses e-sure and witter "calm down dear its only thirty nine feet". We had been warned that the northern part of the islands could be crowded as they are within easy striking distance of mainland Queensland for day trippers, divers and fishermen etc, so we head south to visit Shaw Island and Thomas Island which we had more or less to ourselves apart from swarms of mossies when we made the mistake of anchoring too close to a mangrove swamp. After the initial adrenalin rush of joining ship, provisioning at staggering prices and setting sail (venturing too close to the airstrip and upsetting a light aircraft on final approach with our rather tall rig), we had a fabulous time, it was windy however we were surrounded by blue seas and skies with huge turtles and manta rays for company, with the added joy of navigating to new anchorages in spectacular sunsets with the independence of our own vessel. It was inevitable that one must adopt a Master and Commander roll but we rubbed along pretty well, eating lightly and sleeping under the stars in the commodious cockpit.

After a few days we returned to Hamilton Island to ship two guests aboard for the rest of our voyage, we took the chance to moan to the owner of our rather tired charter yacht, who was able with a cheery disposition to sort out some bits and bobs that were particularly knackered. This time when we slipped the berth we did head north to lovely anchorages, bays, reefs and sand bars. We had to abandon our plan to sail around the north end of the islands because of strong winds and adverse currents thereby missing the famous photo opportunity of Whitehaven Beach, however as I understand that one has to queue up to anchor there, I was not too disappointed. So with the comfort of our three double en-suite cabins (one holding tank blocked) and four showers, we turned into the wind for a fairly long haul back to the southern islands where we spent an idyllic day or two emptying the freezer of wine and beer and the tanks of 1000 litres of fresh water. We finally shot back to Hamilton Island on a fresh reach past Pentecost Island and its dramatic "Indian Head". From there it was but another free golf buggy ride to the Brizze Boeing and our hols were over bar a final day or so with family on the range.

What was there not to like about the antipodes? Well it takes a man even more foolish than I to think that our holiday trip was a true reflection of life in Oz, however the cost of living and the friendliness of one and all including anyone who serves you anywhere makes it hardly surprising that the Brizvegas city fathers are planning for an extra half a million inhabitants over the next few years, why would any sensible soul not thoroughly enjoy this cosmopolitan city with glorious lifestyle opportunities surrounding it. Our return by Emirates flying carpet took a worthy 27 hours from check-in at the sumptuous Brizzie Business Lounge to banging on the Great Door of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh in the early hours. Could we follow the increasing number of wrinklies who spend a month or two of northern hemisphere winter on the Great Dividing Range within a fart of Point Cartwright and the restaurants of Mooloolaba? Watch this space! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

It's not the leaving of Liverpool.

2009-05-21T09:47:00.000-07:00

Image, if you will, an Orwellian mini state controlled by Big Brother set on an tropical Island Paradise that you might easily get use to visiting, and you have a pretty good picture of Hamilton Island in the Whitsunday group, the only reason the isle is not completely overrun by holiday makers is that it is extremely and I mean by any standards, extremely expensive, this spot was our next Queensland destination. Most of the Whitsundays are a national park with a lot of rules and regs and uninhabited apart from a couple of resort areas such as Hamilton. At some stage a group of wealthy chaps formed Hamilton Island Enterprises and started to spend zillions on five square miles of rain forest and rock, an hour's high speed boat trip from the Great Barrier Reef. Their shopping list was much the same as yours or mine might be, an airport, a marina and harbour, a high street with stores, pubs and restaurants, a few kilometers of sandy beach, apartment buildings, a 300 bedroom hotel and other luxurious accommodation including digs at £1200 per bonce per day (alcoholic drinks extra) and HIE own everything. The whole thing is controlled by central computers so that the Island's private security force knows when you have bought a sandwich in the harbour side bakery (£8) and charged it to your room. It all came as a little bit of a culture shock as we jetted in from Brissie some 400 miles to the south, while dearest Dottie oohed and aahed at the spectacular tropical scenery I kept my eyes firmly shut as there was quite definitely nowhere to land a 737 that I could see. The free golf buggy ride from the airport (staff collect your bags and bring them along later) alerted us to the potentially budget blending two night stay we had planned for R&R after the rigours of our trip so far. Dearest Dottie had selected the Beach Club for B&B, and I must say that it was hard to fault with a bed large enough for three, loo to match and a veranda that opened straight onto Catseye Beach, with an excellent restaurant, the ubiquitous infinity pool and lots of staff of cheery if fairly clueless dispositions. The only gripe was that our visit co-insided with a regular re-grading of the beach by earth movers, it took three complaints to get past the smiling receptionists (desk outside under the palm trees) to find a manager who moved the diggers from in front of our £300 per day patio; they were even daft enough to pull out the old "Health and Safety" excuse, which was frankly pretty patronising. Having not come across the control police anywhere else in Australia it was unsettling, however after the first 12 hours we began to relax a go with the flow, time for sunbathing which was the whole point of the visit.

So will we ever return? Strangely we might although fairly unlikely in real Trollaigh terms. We saw a lot of overseas designer visitors, so HIE marketing must be good and there is simply piles to do to keep you, or your family from falling asleep under the palms. Weddings are very big business, although I can think thousands of more interesting spots at home, and beach weddings in the Seychelles etc. are a bit of a bore. However, everyone to their own. For yachty buffs one of the Hamilton Island owners eventually managed to pour enough cash at a boat to win the Sydney Hobart in 2005, "Wild Oats", so these guys are determined to succeed and with a new yacht club and apartments (start at £1.5 million) and a whole neighbouring island, Dent Island, about to be turned into a new golf resort, who is to say they are wrong, certain not yours truly. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

West of the Woop Woop

2009-05-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

Whilst navigating to Brisvegas airport I switched on the wireless hoping for traffic reports in this busy city, it was a little like standing in a noisy wind tunnel and although there were traffic reports I could not understand the simplest piece of advice because of the speed of delivery and what we would consider the quaint practice of doing the whole item from inside a helicopter. I did hear a lot of rapid fire adverts extolling the virtues of sanitary fittings and floor coverings, it is good to know that such things are readily available in the city when they are a little thin on the ground west of the Woop Woop.

Having fought my way to the airport and booked into Europ Car I was sent off to a lonely car park joined by other lost wanderers on a similar mission, to find our hire car. Oh dear, the car hailed from some far corner of the Pacific rim, I have never heard of the manufacturer or the bland model type, to cap it all it was painted silver with a back seat that must have been the site of some historical biological event, perhaps perpetrated by a small child on a long journey (the car did have New South Wales plates) or someone older after overindulging at a boozy barbecue. When underway I was surprised to find a "low" setting on the automatic gear selector, however its purpose was quickly discovered when approaching the first hill of our journey west, then as the slight gradient increased one also had to switch off the air conditioning to have any hope of reaching the top of the modest brae.

However let us not be too scathing about the ghastly imported motor, as I am pleased to say that it was not Australian and the poor wee thing did manage to carry us to the home of good friends that we have not seen for several years. We had a splendid few days in the glorious farm lands west of the Great Dividing Range where one watches carefully what one steps on and red wine is kept in the fridge. Fortunately the fridge door was opened on a regular basis to release a steady flow of excellent vino and purvey to die for. We were feted around the countryside like royalty and only put to shame by our Bridge skills which were not a patch on the locals. Tree-huggers are a bit scornful of large scale farming in this part of Queensland also home to vast open cast mining operations, however I was most impressed when one of our hosts let slip that he had paid three million for a new irrigation dam, he was particularly proud of the fact that it was large enough to water ski on, however he did admit that it had remained more or less empty since he had built it! Eat your heart out SEPA.

Having found a way of opening the boot of the hire car, sadly the day dawned when we have to head east again, leaving our chums behind, when will we see them again? At least our next leg of the journey was mostly downhill and we could leave the air conditioning on as we headed back towards Brissie, dodging the ever vigilant traffic cops. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Ice With That, Sir?

2009-05-13T23:38:00.000-07:00

Here in the Antipodes as the sun shines and the temperature holds a steady Queensland autumn 23C,national confidence can be measured by learned Australian reports showing that the Antarctic ice is growing and thickening, good news all round. On the other hand the whinging poms take gloomy pleasure in announcing yet another failed, gender balanced expedition costing zillions to put some Cavalry Officer of dubious pedigree on the Arctic ice; the blighter then uses a tool first designed by Shackleton to forecast the onset of doomsday, before being airlifted to safety because his loo seat is broken and they have run out of tampons. Hey chaps, its the northern hemisphere spring any first former can tell you that the ice is melting.

I don't know about you chaps but I am having a bit of a problem with reading matter, it seems eons since I bothered too much about anything other than a few pages at bedtime. Suddenly here in the outback with the old Baronial bottom gently moulding into a veranda deck-chair I am faced with a pile of tomes to wile away the balmy hours before the sun is over the yard arm. I seem to be unable to get my teeth into any serious literature and the 500 page popular sagas bore me shitless. No wonder the elderly prefer a diet of Tatler and The Field, jolly good stuff. One blessing of living on the edge of the rain forest is; No Telly, simply wonderful.

Family weddings can be a bit of a mixed blessing, there are often those Rellies best avoided, however on the other hand there is normally a whole new family of in-laws to be met for the first time, and here in Australia where the baby boomers have created the "blended family" of divorce and re-marriage, one must be doubly cautious if one is naturally gregarious. Hardly a day or two into our jet-lag and dearest Dottie and I are torn from the deck-chairs and whisked off to a delightful kirk on the ranges west of Brisbane to attend the nuptials of a niece. I have prepared a tropical version of the highland kit with kilt, open necked shirt, long socks and deck shoes silently raising a silent prayer in the heat to the Trollaigh commando tradition. Dearest Dottie is simply fabulous in the infamous pink Von Furstenburg wrap with a large straw hat. Because of the risk of loss during air travel the bank would not release some of the classier Trollaigh Trinkets, and in retrospect they would have been a bit OT, certainly apart from the bride not a tiara was to be seen. The service was to be "non religious" however with all the old hippies belting through "Morning Has Broken" and lots of traditional Bridal aires, the whole affair fairly oozed all encompassing joy and celebration. In the super weather it was a pleasure to stand outside and chat while the team photos were snapped, then onward to a relaxed reception at a restaurant whose open veranda gave a view from the Range over the Glasshouse mountains to the ocean some 40K to the east, very special. One simply cannot go wrong with food and drink here as the locals sensibly keep the very best (labelled export quality) for themselves before shipping what is left to Mr Tesco. Wines, meat, seafood, fruit and vegetables are outstanding in quality and value. Cook your own or try any chip shop on the Gold Coast to appreciate what we idiots are prepared to accept back home.

Hardly a day to recover and I blag a lift to Brisbane to hire a car to carry dearest Dottie and I further westward onto the next stage of our hols. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Laugh Kookaburra, Laugh.

2009-05-02T22:20:00.000-07:00

A long trip to the outback "Down Under" has hopelessly interfered with my new found skills in cyber communications. Outwith any city limit mobiles fail and wireless t'internet can only be dreamed of if one is prepared to offer some obviously already rich squatter a small fortune in dollars for a moment or two's connectivity. I was not expecting this as I had erroneously assumed that Australia would be a veritable hot bed of new technology, and so it may be in the garish urban sprawls more akin to middle America than Dear Old Blighty. However here beyond the Woop Woop I am delighted to say that you might as well throw your laptop away and enjoy good company, good food and good drink that cost at least 50% less than those endured by you whinging poms. Imagine if you will the old Baron, tweeds and Borsilino cast aside for shorts and Hawaiian shirts, relaxing on the station house veranda, "a cold one" in hand chatting away to loads of Aussie Trollaighs not seen for thirty years, his only worry being the chilling evening air as the mercury falls below 30C when a woolly top will be required!

Dearest Dottie and I travelled half way round the globe, to attend a family wedding and then to make the easy decision to warm the old bones for a few weeks longer. Those of you who know me will realise that I avoid air travel like the plague, however for this voyage we blew the budget throwing ourselves on the mercy of Emirate Airlines Business Class for the whole 14,000 miles. These chaps swept us from the doors of the Tower of Glen Trollaigh to Glasgow Airport in a gleaming limo, this was all good stuff although our wait in Glasgow's "business class" lounge was a fairly third world affair. Unfortunately one of the chairs booked on our flight to Dubai was broken, meaning a relocation to the centre aisle were I had to endure sitting next to a young American executive who binged on free Champagne for seven hours only to collapse shortly before landing. One imagines that being helped pissed as a fart through immigration into a Muslim country does not go down too well with your average Arab official. We on the other hand secured the services of a gregarious Indian cabbie to show us the sights of Dubai and as dawn rose we marvelled at the development and the buildings of this modern city in a state which cleverly closed the taps on their oil reserves in favour of creating an international financial centre, with the oil to fall back on if the going gets tough. A most impressive place although to be honest not somewhere on our vacation wish list.

Back at the spectacular Dubai terminal 3, we had time to relax in a lounge facility that knocked dear old Glasgow for six or more accurately sixty six, then it was off for 14 hours to Brisbane now known not unreasonably as Brisvegas by the locals. Smart frequent fliers head for Sydney with an internal hop north to Brissie as the busier route boasts more modern aircraft, however we certainly could not complain about the comfort and service we received. Thankfully no drunken Americans, although I would not recommend trying to watch three different movies on one flight, the plots become hopelessly mixed up in the minds of the elderly. Another dawn landing, this time to be met by family and whisked off to the edge of the tropical rainforest with hardly time to get the Raybans on, feel the rush of the warmth, the humidity and hear the Kookaburras laugh for the first time in twenty seven years. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Thoughts In The Monthly Bath

2009-04-11T09:40:00.000-07:00

Ah well, it's Easter and whilst you, gentle readers rejoice in a religious festival of your choice I regret that those of us who dwell in the furthest reaches of the north Argyll glens stir uneasily in the knowledge that hoards of the great unwashed will descend upon us to defecate in our ditches, cut down our trees and scatter their compound litter on every highway and byway. The problem gets worse each year and although we can easily withstand a day or two of discomforting hallooing (loud shouting being the latest, presumably chemical induced craze) at any time of day or night, booming drum and base trimmed with reeking bonfire smoke, the galling fact remains that whilst we, who have bought and paid for our miserable acreage and are bound on every side by miles of red tape and restrictions, then must watch the hoi polloi make free with our land in anyway they wish without the slightest pressure from the self same authorities who hound us. To be fair an effort has been made in the Loch Lomond National Park to weed out the worst culprits at god knows what cost, however this great effort has only moved the problem into our backyard where our nonexistent resources cannot possibly cope, still out of sight out of mind as they say. Personally I blame the lack influence from Baden-Powell figures, who along with the poor old parish priest have been replaced in the home by gigantic tellies belching out complete rubbish to fertilise the barren brains of our youth.

Still one must not carp too much, as I see the Forsythia and primroses are at their very brightest yellow, despite continued negative cash flow I have manged to purchase a toy or two, and to cap it all a pair of Swallows are inspecting the shed with a keenness that suggests they must have been here before, surely the earliest arrivals I can remember. I am busy preparing a proposal to SNH to back a bid to reintroduce three extinct mouse species under their "re-wilding" programme as I am very pleased to report that our new mouse flavoured doggie biscuits are going down a storm , although our moggies are looking a bit on the thin side as we trap every beast we can for the flavour gravy.I can even see a whole new career in mouse breeding and production, even mouse farming opening up before me. This is of course bizarre as I have spent a lifetime trying to exterminate the blighters; excellent.

As part of my Christmas reading list I have just finished "A View From The North Lochs" a compilation of Aimsir Eachainn's most wonderful columns from the West Highland Free Press of the 1980's. I challenge anyone not roll about in tears of laughter at his 1st July, 1988 "Things To Do In Bed". In fact I am considering forcing relatives to read the article as a sense of humour test, only those who hoot and guffaw will be invited back. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

A Slip Twix Cup And Hip

2009-04-07T08:47:00.000-07:00

During a spell of our now regular communication technical problems the weather cleared to allow me to check the levels of our 120 sqm polytunnel site, you will not be surprised to learn that there were certain discrepancies in my original calculations requiring the summoning of heavy equipment to rectify the problems. However I can report that after three expensive days of digger hire and much professional sucking of teeth we poured the concrete founds before the Atlantic low pressure systems swept in on Glen Trollaigh. We are going to leave the tunnel frame until May as the manufacturers recommend that the plastic cover is stretched in mild, windless conditions otherwise the whole bally thing will lift off like a zeppelin. The Atlantic weather also ushered in British Summer Time to the lonely glens of north Argyll, as the years pass this becomes more and more akin to jet lag pour moi, taking several days of shouting at dogs, who unreasonably want to pee at 6.00am to get back some level of time equilibrium. Why can't they just leave it at Greenwich Mean Time all year? Of course the Frogs now insist we call GMT Universal Time Constant to which our spineless government agree, the same bunch who now require me to display a SEPA certificate in the bog to advise guests that The Tower of Glentrollaigh have a registered effluent system in case they would rather not ease themselves in an unregistered loo. Life is too short to get carried away with all this nonsense, however where is it leading us as a nation? Perhaps we should indeed learn from our European neighbours who when challenged on the soundness of their decision to wholehearted embrace nuclear power generation; opposed by their populace the politicos responded that one "does not consult the frogs (sic) when one drains the swap". If only our lot had as much gumption.

With dearest Dottie hors de combant following a Scottish Country Dancing injury inflicted during a lively Strip The Willow on the marble flags of Kelvingrove Art Gallery, whilst enjoying a glass or two of bubbly at a spiffing reception; a long suffering Mhairi is now meeting my demanding standards of innovative dog biscuit design and product development. There seems to be a bit of directorial politics at board level; my recent offering of alphabet biccies that ticked all the boxes of nutrition and packaging "slump" were roundly rejected on the grounds that doggies would be offended by words such as "bitch" or "poop" appearing at random in their din dins. However lots more paid work for yours truly, even if they are all barking and the world has gone mad! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

M

It's Mull Jim, But Not As We Know It!

2009-03-22T10:33:00.000-07:00

Many thanks for messages about Mull and birthdays, particularly to my new Mull Mole he or she has sprung to the defence of the Mull Constabulary who apparently have the added burden not only of looking after Sea Eagles but also road traffic offences. The mainland traffic boys only make infrequent visits to frighten the locals as their delicate high speed pursuit cars cannot cope with Mull's notoriously poor roads. So one should not be too surprised at being collared for double parking outside HRH Prince Charles's favourite chip wagon on the fisherman's pier, or for J walking across Main Street, Tobermory on a wet winter Wednesday by a PC trying to stretch his resources over 200 square miles. I suppose I must have been a bit miffed having just filled the coffers of Calmac and various Mull traders with sums substantially greater than my entire Florence budget, a city that certainly would not bother with a risqué number plate or virtually any other alleged misdemeanour for that matter.

Now that holidays are over it is back to mainland Argyll where snowdrops are fading and daffodils are storming ahead, primroses peep, song birds sing and even a few pigeons haunt the riverside trees. There is a definite feeling of change in the air although any Argyll or Glen Coe hand knows that we can still suffer from winter weather and as I speak the forecasters warn of doom, gloom and snow that will cover the high ground, just when I am keen to pour a few cubes of concrete. C'est la vie! There is however some good news on the employment front, I am sure you will not be surprised to hear that all us country folk are skidding reluctantly into areas of low cash flow that we previously had discounted as unheard of. The naked truth is that we urgently require income to swan on through the coming year, particularly at this point in the critical couple of weeks before Easter. Both dearest Dottie and I have applied for various mundane posts, however in my case my cv and in both of our cases, our date of births have rendered us well nigh unemployable. Even employers normally desperate for manpower to feed the inmates of fish farms or to escort coachloads of silver-back tourists to the attractions of the highlands most easily accessible by wheelchair have turned me down. My personal favourite, an application for the post of a Crinan Canal lock keeper was not even graced with the dignity of an interview with British Waterways. However, good news, I have been approached by a leading dog food manufacturer to research and develop a system to facilitate the equal distribution of the different shapes and flavours of doggie treats within the box of biccies readily available on a supermarket shelf near you. This is a great honour and extremely well paid and one would assume that this complicated matter will take quite a time to resolve, even to an expert in portion control such as myself. This certainly brings back a little confidence to the balance of payments, now where is that flyer from Majestic Wines? All the very best, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

The Guilt of Idleness

2009-03-09T03:16:00.000-07:00

Monday arrives with snow and thunder, sending the household rushing to disconnect our three separate satellite dishes; how I remember the heady days of "new" technology when the first crack and flash of a storm sent one sprinting to unplug the fax machine which was notoriously vulnerable to the old power surge. Our fax has long since been buried, indeed I was surprised to receive an enquiry a couple of days ago soliciting a "fax back" reply which I had thought went out with the ark. However as the enquiry stemmed from one of the many and mysterious departments of Visitscotland, one should hardly be surprised. Despite a relatively optimistic forecast we are enjoying some lively Atlantic weather which has us all sheltering after the weekly run to transfer the wheelie bins to the Glen Trollaigh road end, a strength sapping task in these conditions. While coffee brews we wait in that no mans land between wanting to get ones teeth into the some meaningful task out of doors, lacking both tools (away for repair) and suitable weather, or alternatively finding the will power to tick something off the indoor list which will inevitably involve ghastly pots of paint or bags of soot. How one envies the Academic on a wet day his or her ability to sit at the library desk, fire blazing, pondering the mysteries of science or the meaning of life, without the guilty burden of broken gutters, a dangerously low stock of firewood or a mysterious patch of damp rising on the scullery wall. A little later in the week and a cracker of a good day appears, now the decision has to be made; skiing or digging, needless to say we choose the later and within hours a link breaks on the digger track leaving me to spend the rest of this sunny day wrestling with pinch bars up to my waist in mud neither digging nor skiing. the following day the rain sets in. To add insult to injury our computer and communication links fail for several days, so there has been damn all scribbling into the bargain!

However all was not lost, dearest Dottie's birthday made its annual appearance and although I struggled manfully to find transport to Florence for a mini shoe buying break, nothing seemed to fit the bill unless one rises in the early hours on a Tuesday or a Sunday to stand in a queue at Prestwick International Airport to become self loading baggage on some mad millionaire Irishman's aeroplane, or set off at a reasonable hour changing at Gatwick, Schipol and Zurich to arrive in Florence half an hour after one has supposed to start the return journey. So what to do? The inspirational answer was three days on Mull, apart from landing at the odd yachtie watering hole I have to confess that I have hardly set foot on this large island not a stones throw from home. We had heavy weather so ferries were cancelled or delayed and the whole population seem to hibernate until Easter leaving most attractions, shops, pubs etc.firmly shut to the March traveller. However by good fortune the Highland Cottage in Tobermory was prising open its doors for the season and we found shelter there. I have heard of this spot and was absolutely delighted with its high standard of comfort, hospitality and excellent cuisine. I can heartily recommend Highland Cottage to anyone, it might be a bit on the cosy side in high season but suited us down to the ground in March. We had a wonderful time motoring to every corner of Mull, with long walks and a trip to Iona, unfortunately a slumbering feeryman thwarted our plan to visit Ulva, but perhaps another time. The only black mark was a ticking off by a policeman for displaying "an illegal" number plate, my cherished TO 55 ERS. The constable, for I believe he was, although he was wearing a green anorak over his uniform covering his warrant badges, pointedly asked me when we were leaving Mull and threatened that if he ever saw that number plate on the island again he would book us. I really was not too upset but so much for all our efforts to encourage visitors and boost the tourist dollar, one can only suppose that all was not well on the domestic front chez PC! Back in Glen Trollaigh the sun shines again so here's hoping we can complete a task or two! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

The Magic Pudding

2009-03-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

As a nasty weather front spills into western Argyll, I have a few moments to record my thoughts while some pretty chilly looking rain streams down the Great West Windows of The Tower of Glen Trollaigh, a sight that forces even the hardiest of our mutts to seek shelter rather than brave a pee opportunity about the breezy policies. We actually have enjoyed some fair weather however the key issue has been equipment failure as we struggle to maintain the ambitious time table imposed by dearest Dottie on our outdoor "mud and rocks" operations. Trusty twelve year old chain saws have seized, diggers have been lost in muddy morasses and punctures in the tyres of heavy equipment have been infuriatingly reluctant to accept permanent repairs. Frustration with the failure of the old has been compounded by failure with the new; our all singing satellite communication set up is more often "down" than connected and a spiffing new laptop for yours truly has been a complete non starter leading me to revert the old Olivetti and to depend on the good grace of the women folk to transcribe my wanderings into electronic speak when time and Ethernet allows. Of course all this sets one to ponder the acquisition of new toys and the wonderful ways in which deals are sealed in lands west of Glen Coe. Dealing here is more akin to the old swapping of The Travellers that odd bunch of indigenous Scots whose culture is now regrettably lost in all but family names. These fellows would swap anything with a small cash adjustment either way for "the deal", and so it was that a minister not a million miles from this parish swapped a christening for a weed strimmer; now I wonder what I could swap for a new or at least recent model chainsaw?

More importantly some of my canny advisers indicate the imminent withdrawal of Erie from the euro, spurred on enthusiastically by France and Germany, this will in turn bring a devaluation of the pound sterling, so my advice is to buy those toys now before the tenner in your pocket is worth only nine pounds or less, when johnnie foreigner finally pushes the nose of our complete washout of a government firmly in the you know what!

We seem to be riding a wave of seasonable sociable functions that have all been, or we hope will be great fun. Not a lot stirs in this part of the world at this time of the year where lambs are not planned to appear until after Lent, however we can be found kicking up our kilts at local "scenes" on a friday evening,even travelling to spots as far apart as Glasgow and Port Glasgow to heuch and tcheuch the nights away supporting any old cause. As well as strong drink and good company these events often involve a repast of very varying standards and always of the three course variety, these bun fights are becoming a little more cosmopolitan and our recent "do" at the Al Shamra/Gourock Felicitation Society the main course was a curry, now that one has to cater for veggies and fat people with food allergies, it was a spicy mushroom affair. I haven't a clue where the chef sourced his or her ingredients but I found myself and dearest Dottie siting bolt upright in the Great Bed of Trollaigh at 3.30am as wide awake as Easter Bunnies only after a couple of hours pacing and reading could I return to the land of nod. On the other hand there is never any variety in the pudding, always a Pavlova tasting vaguely of cardboard and made with fake cream, however all is not lost when this abomination is tickled up with a generous measure of Calvados from a pre-prepared flask. Now where are we of to this weekend? Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Boo Hoo Bamboo

2009-02-21T06:35:00.000-08:00

After ten weeks of almost continuous Alpine weather a soft southerly breeze brings milder, misty conditions that chase the snow line up the mountainsides and heralds the first school holidays of the year. This midterm week was devised by posh schools to allow their parents to nip off en famille to the pistes, said parents quickly expanded it to a pre-recession fortnight, forcing the Hoi Polloi to follow suit with a holiday that seems to have become a traditional father's bonding weekend in the hills, mum being far too busy with a high pressure career and mortgage repayments to take time off to cuddle children. I was unfortunate enough to witness the result of this paternalism whilst dining at The Bridge of Orchy Hotel, the sight of unshaven dads hosting tables of frankly fat, poorly dressed, dirty children whilst the constant electronic pinging of mobile phones, games and suchlike made overhearing what little conversation there was well nye impossible. Do not misunderstand me, I enjoy a noisy dining room as much as the next man, however I cannot understand a hotel with a dress code (please do not remove your shoes) and a hatred of gaming machines allowing this nonsense, it almost put me off what was otherwise an excellent meal.

The fishing season opens as the game season closes and I have to admit that hardly a shot has been fired in anger during January, the weather being far too good to go around killing things. Instead dearest Dottie and I have managed enough Scottish skiing to grind the rust off our edges and marvel at magnificent views. The rods remain racked although as I plough through the routine ground maintenance and plan weather permitting ploys ahead, I find myself increasingly considering the well loved softly swirling pools and whether they have survived the winter floods unchanged, perhaps tomorrow or even the day after.

Every so often some kind cove sends a new product for the baronial endorsement and so it was that postie delivered a pair of Bambooties for my appraisal, these are labelled as Bamboo socks, so one can imagine the caution with which I opened the package. I was amazed to discover that these chaps are very similar to my beloved Merino Wool Icebreakers, in fact surprisingly so, especially as the material is formulated to a secret recipe in China, with of course a bearded PhD banging on about sustainability and other eco-babble. Although the Bambooties are perfectly OK, I shall be sticking to the Icebreakers, which at least I know for certain start out in life on the back of an NZ Merino sheep. As I waded through the Bambootie PR Bumf I was astounded to read the name Col Randolph Tweed-Luff, this ancient is apparently IC the development of a Bambootie lined condom. This arse was the very creep who made my early school years an absolute misery. The fact that he is not only alive but also has anything remotely to do with sexual congress had me grasping for breath and reaching for the Hendricks in double order.

Hey Ho, at least life in the North Argyll glens continues at a happy, steady pace and one can hardly get too upset when contemplating glorious Glen Coe while the ice clinks against the Waterford Crystal. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

Hello Again

2009-02-11T08:50:00.000-08:00

Those careful Kerrs have been moving their Glen Orchy website into some new thing completely beyond the ken of yours truly. However they have kindly offered space for scribbling. Looking forward to communicating with you all again soon. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.